Our Little Dream
by Chelsie Dagger
Summary: A stream of consciousness/interior dialogue piece exploring Carson and Mrs. Hughes in the four months between her revelation about Becky and Christmas. AND BEYOND! Both POV's.
1. Perchance to Dream

Charles Carson, butler of Downton Abbey, lay staring at the ceiling of his sparse attic room. It was after two in the morning. The late summer air occasionally stirred the curtains of his tiny window, but the night was otherwise still. Though the children and most of the staff remained at Downton, the house felt empty without the family. They were still away for the grouse and the staff had been granted an early night, but that was little benefit to Mr. Carson. Sleep was not likely to claim him tonight, no matter the hour.

His plans for the future, which had been on such a blissful trajectory of late, had been brought to the ground like a winged bird by a simple revelation; Elsie Hughes had a sister.

She'd prefaced her shocking disclosure by cagily admitting, _'I don't lie, but there are things I don't say.'_

He could not fault her for that. He'd hidden things from her as well. There was never an expectation of full disclosure in their relationship. No, he was not angry with her. The bitterness in his mouth at present was from his disappointment in himself.

How had he not known that Mrs. Hughes had a sister? What kind of friend was he that he hadn't known something so basic? Did anyone else know? Mrs. Patmore? Lady Grantham? _I'll bet Thomas knows; he always seems to know everything about everyone, _Mr. Carson thought ruefully.

_'I'm a pauper,'_ she'd told him.

How had he not noticed her scrimping and saving over the years? Admittedly, hers was not the wardrobe of a pauper, but he knew the answer to that mystery. She was always so well turned out, practically yet elegantly attired with no hint of the vanity to which she held rightful claim. Indeed, he'd once considered speaking to her about misspending her money when he noticed she had several, expensive-looking additions to her wardrobe in a short amount of time.

Luckily, he'd avoided insulting her and getting an earful for his trouble. He'd overheard Mrs. Patmore complimenting Mrs. Hughes' new green coat. The housekeeper had sheepishly explained that she'd received several lightly used items in return for her assistance with the church bring and buy sale while the family was in London for the Season. She confessed to the cook that most of her clothing was from the bring and buys over the years.

He'd always admired her frugality, thinking it one of the finer traits of the Scottish people, but now he saw a purpose behind some of her more eccentric habits. Even when she was the new housemaid, she rarely took the time off she was owed. On the rare occasion when she did bother to take one of the half days, Elsie didn't go shopping or have tea like the other maids. She would take a small picnic from the house kitchen and disappear into the estate grounds for a few hours.

As he lay in the dark reflecting, Charles pictured her meticulously decorated sitting room. He knew the story behind every item; a tea set left by her mother, a silhouette left by her predecessor, curios sent from former subordinates as a token of thanks for her guidance. It now dawned on him that she had not purchased any of the things in her sitting room.

Though she was an avid reader, Elsie Hughes never bought books. She read almost exclusively from the house library. Her personal collection was made up of books which were gifts from Mr. Carson or Lady Grantham. The evidence of her poverty was there if he'd only looked. Knowing that money was so dear made her gift of the frame that had once held Alice's photograph even more significant.

Knowing that she had a sister to support made her health scare even more poignant. Beyond pondering her own fate, how she must have worried about the sister she would leave behind unsupported. As if he needed more evidence of her quiet fortitude. She had faced that fear alone. She had not needed to confide in him, had not needed his comfort or help. He'd never been fool enough to think that she needed him, but it hurt to know it for certain.

Now, he felt a fool for dragging her around to look at properties she knew she could never buy. He'd been oblivious to the torture he was inflicting. How many years had he been oblivious when it came to Mrs. Hughes? He knew that he respected her; had known that almost from the beginning. He knew that he cared for her; almost losing her to that Burns fellow and then cancer had made admitting that unavoidable. Their gentle teasing had always felt natural and innocent; two close friends with widely disparate opinions.

Then she'd come to London and everything had changed. The Season had been more enjoyable than ever. Her presence made Grantham House feel more like home than it ever had before. They'd held hands on the beach. She'd challenged him to live a little. For the first time he hadn't had to pretend that he enjoyed London when he returned to Downton.

Suddenly, he wasn't content to disagree with her, even when she teased him about it. He wanted to always be in agreement with her. He never wanted her to frown because of him or be disappointed in him. He hadn't succeeded. He couldn't be sure if he'd argued with her more of late or if he was just more aware of it. She took it in stride and acted as though she expected no different, but it bothered him like a burr under a saddle.

During the Memorial location debate he'd finally found the courage to tell her how much their disagreeing unsettled him. She'd blushed and joked about needing to check herself in the mirror when he flattered her like that. He might have confessed everything to her in that moment if Barrow hadn't interrupted by announcing Sergeant Willis.

She hadn't exactly sided with him against Mrs. Patmore, but she had respected his conviction of how to rightfully honor Downton's lost heroes. She'd brokered a sort of peace between him and Mrs. Patmore.

The day they'd spent perusing Mrs. Patmore's house had decided everything for him. He'd watched her eyes sparkling as she assessed the property. She was happy for her friend, but Charles could see something behind her gaze. Was it sadness, envy, hope? He couldn't have said. He admitted his own envy to Mrs. Hughes and asked her obliquely about her plans for the future. She'd deflected him easily but the little smile she'd given him planted the seed of an idea in the hard soil of his ponderous mind.

He watched her more closely, spoke to her more openly and was rewarded by a deepening in their friendship. The thought of a shared future beyond Downton grew in his mind from a wish to a surety. Retirement wasn't a frightening prospect to him anymore. His offer to invest in property together had been an impromptu decision but he'd been thinking of it for months. She hadn't said 'yes', but she hadn't said 'no' and her eyes had twinkled at the thought. It was all the encouragement he'd needed to move forward with his plans.

He was so happy, he hadn't noticed her reticence and had ignored the fact that she still had not officially said 'yes.' Finally, he'd bullied her too far. He'd found the perfect property and she'd finally had to let him down gently.

She'd expressed remorse but he suspected that was out of kindness. She'd called it a 'folly' and 'a nice idea.' His chest hurt as he remembered.

_That's not all she said,_ his heart reminded him. He shut his eyes and forced himself to remember tonight's conversation verbatim. He replayed her words in his head.

_'I would have liked to come in with you, I would have…I won't because I can't.'_ Did she really mean that or was she just trying to let him down gently? She wasn't one to lie to spare his feelings. Maybe she was being sincere, but how could he ever know?

_'I wish you very well with your house, Mr. Carson, you've earned it, but there is no place for me in the project.' _ He should have contradicted her right there. The project only existed because of her, she had provided the inspiration, he would provide the capital. He didn't need her money; never had. It wasn't about money. It was about knowing that she'd always be by his side, at Downton or in retirement.

_'I've enjoyed our little dream. I'm the one to blame for stringing you along.'_

His eyes shot open. _'Our little dream.' _Was that what she'd really said? He thought hard. Yes, that's what she'd said; not _your_ little dream or _my_ little dream, but _our_ little dream.

She wasn't just patronizing him when she said she wished she could buy in with him. If circumstances were different, she would have gladly joined him. There was a chance that she wanted the same future he wished for. This thought calmed him. The future was still murky, but less so than it had seemed only a few short minutes ago. He had reason to travel in hope; it wasn't much, but it was enough for now. Sweating slightly in the closeness of his little room, Charles Carson was finally able to drift off to sleep: perchance to dream.

TBC...

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**AN/ I can't help but wonder how their relationship might have changed in the four months between her revelation about Becky and Christmas. Surely, there must have been a few weeks of tension at least before he felt comfortable discussing the house with her again. Obviously they are back on very friendly terms before Christmas and he's able to tell her about the house without any visible awkwardness, but how did they get there?**

**Next Chapter...Elsie's POV.**


	2. Daydreaming

She wasn't avoiding him exactly. The family was due back tomorrow and she had neglected some of her duties while gallivanting around the countryside looking at properties with Mr. Carson. At least that was the excuse she would give if he asked. The truth was that she hadn't neglected anything. She suspected he would know that to be true, but he would not challenge her if she said otherwise. Changing out the electric light bulbs in the guest rooms was hardly a high priority. But she wasn't avoiding him, she just needed some space to think. She hadn't let herself think about it last night, if she had she would never have gotten any sleep.

She'd woken this morning with a general feeling of dread and immediately remembered their discussion the night before. How would he be today? She had wondered. Mrs. Hughes had watched him cautiously at breakfast where he had been civil but unreadable. She had managed to not see him since, though she knew she must face him again at luncheon. She reminded herself that there was no reason to dodge him. He'd been very kind last evening when she told him about Becky. He hadn't been angry with her for not telling him sooner. No, he hadn't been angry, it was much worse than that; he had been hurt.

He had every right to be, she mused as she began to change out the bulbs in the Chinese Room. He was her closest friend at Downton, which meant he was her closest friend in the world. She had kept her most personal secret from him until she'd been forced to confess, but he'd accepted her story and offered sympathy rather than judgment. He hadn't even been put out that she'd strung him along about the house for so long. He'd taken the blame onto himself; berated himself for a lack of sensitivity to her situation, the dear man.

She was not proud of her actions; she had led him to believe she was serious about investing with him. Why had she let it go on so long? Of course, she had enjoyed visiting the sites with him; riding side by side as the bus jostled them together, teasing him when he commented on the distance of one of the houses from the bus stop. Why had she not told him the truth from the beginning? He might still have invited her along; he valued her judgment, after all.

Maybe she'd thought something might change while they were considering properties. Knowing Mr. Carson as she did, she hardly expected him to rush into anything. If he moved with his normal, cautious pace she might not have had to tell him for several years, but this project had energized him. Every time she saw him, he was excited about some new idea he'd had for the enterprise. His enthusiasm had been contagious; drawing her along so that there were times she forgot that her participation in the scheme was impossible.

He'd surprised her by moving so quickly. It was barely a month before he'd shown her the paperwork for the first property. It was woefully undersized for his grand plans, but he insisted she familiarize herself with the details so they had a common point of reference. She was shocked when he scheduled a grand tour of the four most likely properties while the family was away.

How had things progressed so quickly? This was Charles Carson, after all. The man took two years to research a pair of shoes before purchasing. He considered a new fountain pen to be an undertaking requiring months of consideration. She had not anticipated such alacrity from him on a matter as serious as purchasing an investment as important as this.

Was he thinking of retiring soon? Was that his motivation? The thought made her heart cold. She'd long ago accepted that she was stuck at Downton for as long as they would have her, but the prospect was not bleak. The assured presence of her dearest friend made such a fate bearable, even pleasant.

Again she asked herself why she had deceived him. Yes, she thought it would take him longer to reach the point of actually needing money from her but what changes had she hoped for? What had she thought might happen in the meantime? She did not for one second wish any harm to come to Becky. Perhaps if Becky's life were difficult or painful, Elsie might have wished for a release for the both of them, but her sister was a sweet, simple soul living happily by the sea.

Elsie sighed and looked out the window. The bright summer sun on the lawn was an odd contrast to the oppressive red walls of the room. Outside spoke of freedom whereas the closeness of the room felt like a prison; not the harsh, grey prison Anna was currently enduring, but a prison nonetheless. The lawn, once green, was now turning golden. It reminded her of their walk along the short lane that led to the house from Brouncker Road. She'd meant to tell him about Becky that day but when they'd reached the house they were to inspect all thoughts of shame at her deception disappeared.

The house was set back from the road and ideally situated. It was large, but not imposing. There was a quaint, unassuming charm about it. She could tell straight off that it was solidly built with very little need of renovation. She watched him tour the house, smiling at her excitedly when he found the mud room to be just the right size and the kitchen to be in just the right place. She had smiled back in genuine joy. She could see the dream taking shape as he described their imaginary tenants spending their days in the small library or the well-lit parlor or the garden that had grown only slightly wild. She could almost believe that she would be a part of that dream. All she could think about was him, _them_, in this house. It felt so right. She hadn't wanted to lose that feeling immediately and had decided against telling him about Becky.

_Oh, for goodness sake,_ Elsie scolded herself, _just admit it; you know damn well why you didn't tell him the truth sooner._

_I don't know what you mean, _the housekeeper inside her claimed unconvincingly.

_You didn't tell him that you had no money because you hoped something would change between the two of you._

_Change? What could change between us? _She asked herself, though she already knew the answer.

When he'd first asked her to...invest in a property together she'd wanted to read between the lines to hear his business offer as a proposal of something more. He'd been so adorably nervous raising the subject that she could almost believe it had been a proposal of marriage. She knew Mr. Carson would never speak directly about his feelings; supposing he had any.

After that day, she retroactively let herself see more in his actions than was there. She remembered him singing in his pantry after receiving the news of her clean bill of health. She remembered the lift of his eyebrows at her 'risque' suggestion on the beach. More recently, he'd told her that he wasn't comfortable when they disagreed. She remembered the way he'd said, _'Get away with you,'_ when, in a moment of weakness, she'd flirted with him more than she'd intended. His tone had been soft, playful, but serious. There had been something in his expression that flustered her. If Thomas hadn't interrupted them, there was no telling what she might have said.

And then there had been the day they'd spent touring the houses almost as fondly as she remembered their day at the beach. He was different away from his responsibilities. He always seemed more human in his grey suit, somehow. He was still proper and a little stiff, but he smiled more, laughed even. He'd acted like a gentleman escorting a Lady on a picnic. He'd only let her carry the basket Mrs. Patmore had packed for them after they'd eaten and it was lighter. He'd strolled along the path by her side, his steps still purposeful, but not hurried.

She had stacked all these memories together into a monument that proved that he cared for her. Then, last night, her house of cards had collapsed; her illusions destroyed. He'd come to her with wine from his own collection, beaming proudly, almost giddy with excitement, and she'd thrown a wet blanket on his happiness. She would never forget the look of confused disappointment when she'd finally said 'no'. How could he ever forgive her? How could she ever forgive herself?

She shook off these fanciful thoughts with a self reproachful grunt. Daydreaming had never gotten her anywhere. She was a pragmatic woman and gazing wistfully out a window dreaming of what might have been was not going to do any good to anyone; her, Becky or him. She felt badly for misleading Mr. Carson, she truly did, but he had assured her that he could afford the house without her. At least she had not ruined the dream for him.

She had enjoyed the past few months so much that she could not honestly regret her actions. She'd traveled this journey with him as far as she could, culminating in an idyllic day with him all to herself; a memory she would always have to cherish. It had been worth it, even if he was cross with her for a while. Ultimately, she trusted that Mr. Carson was her friend and he wasn't going to punish her for fooling herself into believing she had any options in life. Their friendship was not so fragile as that.

It was foolishness to avoid him, she decided. There was no point in it. Such a course of action would only serve to punish them both and he did not deserve to be punished. _Besides_, she thought practically, _he'll be at every meal and I have to eat._

TBC...

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**AN/ Thank you for the enthusiastic encouragement, your reviews and follows lead me to believe that I am not the only one obsessing over this time frame. I don't anticipate more than 5 chapters, but can't write anything else until I've exorcised these thoughts.  
**

**Next chapter, Mr. Bates does a runner and Carson puts a bid on the house.**

**As always, I love hearing your thoughts. **


	3. Bid for a Dream

**AN/ **** Both POV's today. ****This is a little more speculative, but I think realistic. **

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He read the letter one last time. Everything seemed in order. The offer was fair and he had every faith that it would be accepted. He sealed the envelope with a smile and added it to the pile that would go out with the morning post. He poured a small glass of sherry for himself and toasted to his hoped for success.

The wine did not taste as sweet as it should and his celebration was over before it really began. He wanted to share the news with her, but that would be unkind, he thought. She'd mentioned the house to him only once in the week since she'd withdrawn from the project. She'd simply reiterated that she hoped he would still be pursuing home ownership.

Her tone had been light as she teasingly called him an aspiring property magnate, but he'd seen the small twitch of her lips as she forced her smile a little too much, but not enough to reach her eyes. He'd begun to notice these little signs of discontent once he'd begun to look for them. They were few and far between, but they were there for anyone who was looking. It was clear that no one was looking except for him. They all took her for granted, just as he had.

She was putting on a brave face and most of the time she was her practical self. There had been some awkwardness at breakfast the day after he learned about Becky, but Elsie had been her old self by luncheon. Maybe she had laughed a little too loudly or had taken more interest than usual in his complaints about the lack of a second footman, but it had been an improvement from the stilted quiet of the morning.

By dinner, he felt they were almost back on even keel and then Mr. Molesley had delivered Mr. Bates' letters. From that point forward it had been all business. Together they'd handled the logistics of going without a valet and welcoming Anna back to the house. Things were calming down now, settling into a sort of routine though no one expected it to last. They had not shared an end of day drink since that fateful night when she'd deflated his balloon.

Yesterday, she'd given him a little frown after her meeting with Lady Grantham. He knew that Elsie would suspect his interference, but she was unlikely to confront him about it. It was worth the risk. He did not regret his actions on that front. It had felt good to be able to do something for her.

There were now no signs she was at all concerned with the death of their dream. It was clear that she wasn't dwelling on the missed opportunity as much as he was. He wasn't really sure why he was carrying the plan forward. Mostly, he didn't want her to feel guilty about derailing his retirement scheme. He could hardly tell her that there was no point to any of it without her, could he?

Indeed, he was so reluctant to accept that she was no longer part of the enterprise that he'd kept the wording in his letter purposefully vague. He'd used phrases like, 'it is our hope the offer will be to your liking' and 'we look forward to hearing from you.' There was no reason the broker should know that he was no longer in partnership with Mrs. Hughes.

He finished off the bitter tasting sherry before returning the glass to the tray. Leaving the decanter and glasses for a maid to clear in the morning, he turned off the lights and closed up his office.

-00-

Mrs. Hughes saw the envelope addressed to the property broker as she added a last minute order to the post. Was Mr. Carson sending in his bid or was he politely telling the broker that they were no longer in the market for a house? His demeanor at breakfast gave her no indication either way.

He was being careful not to mention the house or Becky, but she wanted to talk to him about the house. She wanted to see him smile again as he talked about the future. 'When we retire,' he'd said on several occasions. She'd felt like a silly goose the way her pulse quickened when he said 'we'. It was clear that he assumed they'd retire simultaneously. She knew that she didn't dare read anything more into it, but her heart raced nonetheless.

There had been no significant change between them since her confession. She felt his eyes on her a little more often. Maybe he was looking for signs of her poverty that had gone unnoticed before now. Did he see that her shoes had been reshod yet again? Did he notice that her handkerchiefs were just squares of fabric from old bed linens that she'd disguised with a bit of embroidery? Did he see the dinginess that she felt hovered around her but never quite settled?

The only sign that he even knew her secret had come in a conversation with Lady Grantham yesterday. She hadn't been surprised by the midweek meeting; so many things were changing in the household it made sense to have an extra sit down with the mistress of the house. She had been surprised at the topic.

_'I'm afraid we've done you a disservice, Mrs. Hughes,'_ the countess had said in that sweet but condescending voice of hers. It had taken Elsie a few years to realize that she wasn't being treated like a child or an imbecile; that was just how Lady Grantham spoke. _'We've asked you to do the work of two people by taking on Grantham House in addition to your work here.'_

_'I don't mind, Milady. I enjoy London.'_

_'I'm glad to hear it, but we ought to have adjusted your salary to reflect the extra work. Carson tells me with what we saved from not replacing Mrs. Bute, we can afford a second footman and offer both you and Mrs. Patmore much deserved pay rises. The sale of the della Francesca has His Lordship in a generous mood and I think we should take advantage, don't you?'_

She'd wanted to protest, but how could she do so without affecting Mrs. Patmore's pay rise? Mr. Carson had certainly handled this deftly. She understood then why he had looked like the cat that got the cream when he announced they would be hiring a second footman.

_'Whatever you feel best, Milady,'_ she'd answered and the Countess had told her the sums. It was generous indeed, almost a fifteen percent rise. Mrs. Patmore would be able to make some improvements on her property sooner than expected which meant she could charge more rent.

Elsie had wanted to be upset with him. She still considered confronting him, but what would be the point? He'd reason that her salary was due an update as was Mrs. Patmore's and that it was best to do so before the savings from Mrs. Bute's salary were already rolled into other parts of the estate.

She tried to tell herself that he'd have made the same suggestion even if he hadn't known about Becky, but she knew it wasn't so. It wasn't his place to comment on the salaries of the female staff. He'd overstepped his authority even mentioning it to Her Ladyship. He would never have done so without good reason. Elsie very much suspected that Becky was that reason. It really was impossible for her to be upset with him on this score. Unfortunately, she really wasn't able to thank him either. He'd deny his interference and say something cold about it being long overdue. Best to do nothing, but…

"Is that the morning post, Mrs. Hughes?" Thomas's voice roused her from her thoughts.

"Yes, Mr. Barrow, I was just adding my own last minute letter." She handed the under butler the small stack of envelopes. She hoped very much that Mr. Carson had put a bid in on the house. If he had, he would tell her in his own time. Even if she wasn't part owner, Elsie was sure there would be opportunities for her to visit the house with him. She looked forward to just having that.

TBC…

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**AN/ I love hearing your thoughts. Next chapter I think we'll jump forward a ways to when he gets word that his bid is accepted.**


	4. Sleepwalking

**AN/ Let's get another POV, shall we? A bit 'o Beryl to brighten your day...**

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Mrs. Hughes saw a flash of black and white as he scampered out of the kitchen just as she entered by the opposite way. That was the most she'd seen of him since the morning post had arrived during breakfast. What was he up to?

It could only bode ill if he was sneaking around. Mrs. Hughes' suspicions only heightened further when Mrs. Patmore acted cagey when addressed by the housekeeper.

She didn't press the point, but she did give Mrs. Patmore a warning look as she delivered the week's menu plan. _I know you're hiding something Beryl Patmore,_ she glared at her friend. The cook had the good sense to find an immediate reason to hurry back into the pantry.

Shaking her head to herself, Mrs. Hughes entered the hallway on her way to her sitting room but stopped. Maybe she should speak to Mr. Carson. He'd have to talk to her. He was trapped in his parlor, doubly trapped behind his desk, no doubt. The door to his pantry was shut, but that didn't mean anything to anyone else in the house, why should it stop her?

-00-

He sat at his desk staring at the door, his fingers drumming nervously on his desk set and the letter. She'd probably concluded her business with Mrs. Patmore by now. Would she pay him a visit or would she retreat to her office? She was likely aware that he was ducking her by now. Would she respect his privacy or would she insist on knowing what was going on? Either action was possible. It simply depended on her mood. He wasn't sure which route he wished for her to take.

He heard her foot steps and just saw the top of her head pass by the interior window. He sighed with relief and leaned back in his chair. Maybe it was for the best. Then the door nearest his desk opened with a brisk knock.

-00-

"I've just delivered the week's menu and meal schedule to Mrs. Patmore. It's a quiet week. We're only entertaining Mr. Travis and Dr. Clarkson for Thursday luncheon."

Her eyes scanned his desk with practiced speed. She knew his desk as well as he did and would notice if anything was out of place. The only thing she saw was an open letter. It must have come in the legal sized envelope that lay beside it. He'd had news, most likely about the house, but was it good or bad? She wasn't even sure what she considered good news on this front.

"Very good. Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. I'll have Mr. Molesley and Andy begin writing the place cards after Mrs. Patmore has approved the menus."

He wondered why they were discussing a process they had successfully completed almost a thousand times before. She'd seen the letter. He saw it in her eyes, but she didn't mention it. Part of him wanted her to mention it, to extract the truth from him, but now was not the time.

"Was there anything else you needed?" _I'm not ready to discuss this just now._

"Would you care for a sherry this evening? It's been a while." _ I miss talking to you._

"It has been some time." _Too long._ "Yes, I'd be delighted, Mrs. Hughes." _Maybe I can tell you tonight. I'll try._

"Very good." _That's enough for now._

She closed his door behind her and moved on to her own office with a crisp step and a hopeful smile.

-00-

Mrs. Patmore had come right back out of the pantry carrying the first thing she could reach. She hadn't needed anything, especially not…_a head of lettuce?_

She scoffed and set it aside. She sidled up to the door to listen to Mrs. Hughes talking to Mr. Carson. _Thank goodness they're talking. I couldn't take even a day of those two at odds. I always end up being the go between._

Mrs. Hughes moved on to her sitting room and Mrs. Patmore decided on a bold course of action. _The worst he can do is bark at me, the old dog._

"Mr. Carson?"

"Yes, Mrs. Patmore?"

"You should just tell her. Nothing stays a secret down here for long." _Especially not when I know it._

"I think you may be right. Thank you." _I'd already reached that conclusion, but I appreciate your opinion._

Mrs. Patmore nodded encouragingly to him before returning to the kitchen to put the lettuce head back in the pantry. She didn't know exactly what there was between her two friends. They both played their cards close to the vest, but she knew there was something. It was something more than the fact that Mrs. Hughes could convince Mr. Carson of almost anything.

_Wrapped around her finger, he is,_ Mrs. Patmore thought, _but he's such a stubborn old mule, that's a dangerous position to be in. I surely wouldn't want an old mule wrapped around my finger. But then, I haven't Mrs. Hughes' patience. He's good man underneath the bluster. _Sometimes Mrs. Hughes was the only one who could see past the starched layers to find a man at the heart of the butler.

Mrs. Patmore leaned against the shelving in the food pantry thinking about recent developments between the two heads of staff. Not two weeks after she'd decided to buy her house, Mrs. Patmore had heard from Anna that Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson were considering buying a house together to let or run as a bed and breakfast.

_Sly old fox._ _Investment my foot! _She'd thought with a wise grin when she'd heard. She'd watched them both closely after that for signs of any indication that it was more than a business venture. There were none beyond the almost imperceptible new playfulness in the butler. She'd actually caught him humming to himself as he looked over the house specifications one afternoon.

She'd personally packed them a lovely picnic basket with their shared favorites for their day of touring houses and she'd watched their faces when they returned. Mr. Carson looked most pleased with himself. Mrs. Hughes had been harder to read.

_'Thank you for the picnic, Mrs. Patmore. You know how to spoil us. Mr. Carson wouldn't stop talking about lunch all the way back.' _

_'And how did you find the houses?'_

_'One was especially promising, but I'm sure Mr. Carson will want to keep looking. He says that he has to do the sums to see if any of them will suit.'_

_'But what do you think?'_

_'I think I'll let him look at the figures before I decide.'_ The housekeeper had answered diplomatically.

Mrs. Patmore had taken special care setting the table that night for the intimate dinner the remaining senior staff had shared that evening. The candles had been a last minute addition. _Perhaps a bit of romantic lighting might be in order,_ she'd thought at the time. She'd had half a mind to banish Mr. Carson from the table when he balked at Daisy joining them, but she hadn't wanted to miss the opportunity to observe the two of them up close.

Mrs. Patmore rarely sat at table with them and she was usually too busy to watch them at meals so she didn't have a true point of reference, but it seemed to her that the two were rather cozy. They participated in the general conversation but seemed to be having a silent one of their own simultaneously that was a sort of running commentary. When Daisy had spoken about starting a correspondence course in natural science Mr. Carson had opened his mouth to say something; something discouraging, no doubt. But he had been stopped by Mrs. Hughes coughing ever so slightly and catching his eye.

Mrs. Patmore had resolved to ask Mrs. Hughes about the house in more depth, but before she could there had been all the kerfuffle of Mr. Bates' confession and the excitement surrounding the family returning. It was a little while before she could broach the subject again.

_ 'How are things going on the home hunt front?'_ She'd asked Mrs. Hughes cheerfully one morning a week after Anna's return.

_'I decided that it wasn't the right investment for me, but I think Mr. Carson is still looking.' _The housekeeper sounded chipper enough, but it didn't ring true to Mrs. Patmore.

_'You think? You don't know?' _

_'We haven't really discussed it. He thinks it's a bother for me to hear about it.' _

Mrs. Patmore had not delved any deeper, but had anyone asked, Mrs. Patmore would have confessed herself shocked that Mrs. Hughes had withdrawn from the scheme. It didn't make any sense from what she could see. They hadn't fought, she was sure of that. The whole downstairs would have known if there had been a major row between butler and housekeeper.

Mr. Carson had been more somber of late, but Mrs. Patmore chalked that up to the return of the family and his responsibilities. The sherry glasses had not needed washing as often and even then, only one at a time. _Perhaps they're just busy,_ she'd thought.

Then, today Mr. Carson had come to her with some questions about the purchasing procedure; seeing as how she'd just completed the purchase of her house a few days ago. He'd asked her not to mention it to Mrs. Hughes. She'd asked him why the secrecy was necessary, but the daft man had skedaddled out of her kitchen at the sound of Mrs. Hughes' steps coming down the stairs.

Mrs. Patmore shrugged and placed the lettuce back in the basket with the other heads. She'd told herself years ago it was useless to try and figure out Mrs. Hughes or Mr. Carson, let alone Mrs. Hughes _and_ Mr. Carson.

_You can stare at a hen all day, but you'll see naught but feathers_, she shrugged to herself and went on about her work.

* * *

**AN/ A lot will be said in their sherry session this evening. If you've never heard that little colloquialism of Beryl's before, you are not alone. I either made it up or it's a repressed memory from my grandmother who had almost as many sayings as Beryl.**


	5. Sherry and Sweet Dreams

**AN/ Here's a (mostly) external conversation for a change...**

* * *

Neither of them spoke as he poured out the sherry. The silence hung between them like a physical barrier. This was their usual sherry so he couldn't even break the tension with a description of the wine. _Say something!_ his mind urged, but it was Mrs. Hughes who first jumped bravely into the breach.

"How is young Andy doing, do you think?" She thought it was best to start with something relating to the household.

"It's still early days, but the lad is eager and a quick study," Mr. Carson responded, grateful for the innocuous topic. This was safe territory. "Thomas has rather taken him under his wing, which is helpful; if a little worrisome."

"It may shock you to hear it, Lord knows it shocks me to say it, but I think Thomas could be a good influence on the lad."

"Of course he _could_ be, if he chooses to be, but _will_ he be? That's my concern."

"No reason to worry about it now. Speaking of worrying…" _Oh, real smooth, Elsie, lass. _She chided herself. "Was there something worrying in this morning's post? You've been distracted all day."

"Not worrying, just a bit of news." What was the point in lying to her? That could only serve to make matters worse.

"Good or bad? Good, I hope."

_That depends._ "Yes, good. The offer I sent for the house on Brouncker has been accepted." He watched her response carefully.

"Congratulations." She managed a sincere smile and raised her glass. "I wasn't aware you'd made an offer. I'm so glad you went ahead with your plans."

_They were our plans once; our little dream, _he thought. "I honestly wasn't sure you would want to know." _Doesn't it bother you? Why doesn't it bother you?_

"Of course I want to know. I assure you that you wouldn't spare my feelings by keeping it from me."

Charles frowned at her words. _ Maybe I have upset her._ The thought did not cheer him. I_ should never have said anything. I should never have made an offer._

_Oh, dear, he thinks he's upset me._ "What I mean is that you don't have to worry about sparing my feelings. I'm happy for you. Just as I was for Mrs. Patmore." _Well, maybe this is a little different. _"Please don't feel that you can't talk to me about it. I hope you will keep me informed. I'm very interested."

"Thank you, that's very good of you…all things considered." _Dolt, why bring that up now?_

She ignored his reference to her circumstances. "When will you take possession?" _How soon might you retire?_

"As you know, the current owners are building closer to York. They'll be staying on until the new house is completed, which should be near the end of the year. So it will be January before I can begin making any improvements. If I'm lucky, I may have it available for the first tenants by St. David's Day."

_March 1__st__._ _Plenty of time to hire and train a new butler_, she thought. At least he was talking about tenants, not about living there himself. He had still not mentioned retirement overtly. "Do you have any immediate renovations in mind?"

"A few. In fact, if it isn't too much to ask, I'd be grateful for your advice on the improvements, especially the decor. Every house needs a woman's…" _Touch_. "…advice. And there's no woman whose opinion I trust more than you."

"I'd be happy to help." _Especially if it means more days away from Downton together. _Her face glowed at the prospect.

_My God, she's beautiful. Maybe I can still change her mind. _

They fell silent but this quiet enveloped them both, pulling them closer instead of pushing them apart. Encouraged by the return of their more personal interactions, Mr. Carson decided to address something that had been bothering him.

"Mrs. Hughes," he began tentatively. "Might I ask…That is I was wondering…"

"Yes?" _What could he want?_

"About Becky…"

"Is there something you'd like to ask about my sister?"

"Yes, but I don't want to press you if you don't wish to speak of her." _ But I hope you will tell me about her. Tell me how I can help._

"Now that you know about her, I don't mind. You may ask whatever you like, but I don't promise to answer."_ I want to tell you. _As painful as it had been to tell him about Becky, she was glad that she had. Now she had a friend she could speak to about her sister. She'd always felt badly about treating Becky like dirty secret.

"That's fair," he accepted her terms. "Only, I was curious as to where she is."

"She lives in Lytham St. Annes."

"Near Blackpool? Why so far away?"

_A question that I've asked myself a hundred times_. "My mother and Becky lived there in a group home my mother read about. They cater to people like Becky. She spent her days there while my mother worked. After my mother died, they allowed her to remain there. She has a roommate now.

"She has friends there. She knows her neighborhood. The shopkeepers know her. During the day she can go to the park on her own or even the beach. She knows not to go into the water when she's alone. She mainly goes to chase the seagulls. She loves seagulls." She smiled sadly as she remembered her sister running along the beaches in Argyll when they were young, calling back to the noisy gulls. Cynical, twelve-year-old Elsie rather hated seagulls; they were smelly and mean, but Becky didn't see them that way. To her innocent heart, they were playful creatures of the air and sea. This was just the first instance of many when Elsie learned that the world was a happier place when seen through Becky's eyes.

Charles saw her wistful smile and his heart ached. She obviously loved her sister very much.

"What could I offer her in Yorkshire? She doesn't know the village and she can hardly wander the woods or the moors all day. She was better off there. It seemed cruel to move her." _Even if I wanted her closer._

"When was the last time you saw her?" _You must miss her terribly._

"Three years ago in July." _God, has it really been that long?_

"I know it isn't just a day trip, but you could have taken two or three days together to visit. You only had to ask. It wouldn't have been an inconvenience," he insisted. "Well, not much of one and you've certainly earned a few days off over the past three years."

"It wasn't only the inconvenience. I couldn't afford the train and a room, but I can now, thanks to Her Ladyship's generosity." _And your intervention._

"Nonsense. It's a salary, not charity. You earn that money. They ask you to do the work of two people. It's only right that they adjust your salary to reflect the extra work."

"That's what Her Ladyship said; almost verbatim." _I knew it!_

"Because it's the truth," he said, brooking no discussion. "Does she know you when you visit?"

"Yes, she's simple, but her memory is not affected."

"How bad…I mean…" _Goodness, how does one ask?_ He didn't know the vernacular for this subject. It wasn't discussed in polite society. She understood what he wanted to know.

"She developed slowly until she reached the mental capacity of a ten year old child, according to the doctors. Then she just sort of got stuck."

"Ten isn't a bad age to be stuck at, if one must get stuck," he said lamely. _Fool! What the hell does that mean?_

"Yes, she still has the hopeful innocence of a child. She is a beautiful soul."

"I'm sure she is." _If she's anything like her sister._

Their glasses had been empty for some time.

"I suppose we should call it a night," he said reluctantly. Mr. Carson set his glass on the tray with the decanter. Mrs. Hughes handed him her glass and he repeated the gesture. He stood and turned for the door. She stood also, preparing to follow him out. With the door open, he turned back to her.

"I hope you will find the opportunity to visit her soon. We'll fall apart while you're gone, but we'll survive," Mr. Carson teased, but she saw the sincere concern behind his jesting. "Please let me know if I can help." "

"You've already helped so much," she smiled.

"I haven't done any-"

"But you have, Mr. Carson," she stopped him. "And there is not use denying it. Just accept my gratitude or I shall be cross with you."

He lowered his eyes in acquiescence. This was not worth arguing over. He had indeed influenced Lady Grantham's decision to offer her and Mrs. Patmore salary increases, but there was so much more he wanted to do for her. For now, he would have to be content with whatever little things she would allow him to do or with anything he could do without her knowing.

"I'll say good night, Mr. Carson. I am so glad to hear the news about your house." _Or I shall be._

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes." Oddly, he felt better about the whole business now that he'd told her. It was still too soon to tell her that his original plans were unaltered, but at least they could speak openly about it in the meantime. Someday he hoped he could tell her that their dream was still alive. "Good night." _Sweet dreams._

TBC…

* * *

**AN/ I noticed on a CS rewatch (and rewatch and rewatch...) how casual he was when he brought the wine in during the 'Margaux' scene and the 'Becky' scene. He just comes in with the decanter and two glasses. Apparently, it is only the sherry that comes on that little tray with the (fluctuating number of) glasses, or maybe he was so excited, he skipped over using a tray altogether. Either way, it shows how their relationship has moved from formal to casual. IMO.  
**

**Thoughts on this chapter? Drop me a line.  
**


	6. A Sterling Dream

The days were patently shorter as they navigated November. Though he rarely left the castle, Mr. Carson felt the difference keenly. He missed the little bit of natural light that managed to fight its way into his den during eight months of the year.

The time was not yet six but his room was already dark enough that she would have scolded him for not turning on a lamp. There was a small glow beyond the window, but none of this feeble winter light was strong enough to penetrate the gathered gloom.

Mr. Carson sat at his desk deep in thought holding a silver frame in front of him. He'd appreciated the gift when he'd received it, but obviously not enough. Now, the obvious monetary value of the frame bothered him. If money was as tight for her as she'd said, this gift would have been a mighty strain on her finances. It was not right for him to have accepted it in the first place. He needed to find a way to return it without insulting her.

He heard her familiar step in the hall, but did not register it in time to conceal the frame before she entered the room with a cursory knock.

"You'll strain your eyes, Mr. Carson," she scolded immediately.

"I wasn't reading," he said defensively.

"Then what were you doing?" Mrs. Hughes frowned at him. He was hardly more than a dark shadow behind the desk. The electric light from the hallway filtered into the room around her shadow, in which he sat. Random beams invaded the room and illuminated nothing of interest. "What will the staff think of you sitting alone in the dark? You shall be come philosophical."

He could hear but not see her frown, nor any details of her face or dress. She was nothing more than a back lit silhouette in his doorway. There was no escape, he'd been caught. Mr. Carson thought he might as well be honest with her about the frame, but he wasn't sure how to proceed.

His lack of response began to worry her. She activated the light switch beside the door and the room was suddenly, glaringly lit. He flinched and shaded his eyes. In the process, he lay the frame on his desk in front of him. Mrs. Hughes saw the gleam of silver as he did so. She'd wondered what had become of the photo of Alice. Mr. Carson had removed it from his office soon after their return from London last year. Though she had some idea of why he'd removed it, Mrs. Hughes had never commented on its absence and he'd never offered any explanation.

"Is everything alright?" Her sincere concern for him was clear.

"Come in, Mrs. Hughes, please sit," he invited.

She obeyed. She sat in the chair before his desk with her hands folded in her lap. Her calm demeanor hid her anxiety. Why had he been sitting in the dark remembering Alice Neale? Did Mr. Carson feel that Mrs. Hughes had treated him badly, as Miss Neale had? Was he more upset with her than he'd let on?

"Since you asked, the answer is no; everything is not alright," he confided. "I find myself in a bit of a dilemma." He tapped a finger absently on the frame.

"Can I help?"

"I believe so," he said, but then fell silent. She waited patiently for him to continue, but her insides were roiling.

"Mrs. Hughes, I hope you know that the last thing I would ever wish to do is insult you."

"I do know that, Mr. Carson." Her hands twisted in her lap.

"But you see, it's this…" He tapped the frame more pointedly. "This _gift_. I should never have accepted such an expensive gift from you."

Some of the tension left her body. He was not upset with her. He was still upset with himself. "You've nothing to concern yourself with on that score, Mr. Carson."

Mr. Carson shook his head. "No. Even before knowing about…the demands on your finances, it was inappropriate. Now, it's simply unacceptable."

"You might have a point, if I had _purchased_ the frame, but I did not," Mrs. Hughes confessed with a bowed head. "I should not have given you the impression that I had."

"I don't understand."

"Mrs. Crawley gave me the frame."

Mr. Carson's features contorted in confusion. Mrs. Hughes resisted the urge to grin at him. Mr. Carson had a wide repertoire of expressions to communicate confusion and this was one of her favorites; confused but intrigued. This one always reminded her vaguely of a puppy encountering a hedgehog for the first time, owing largely to the tilt of his head.

"She said it was as thanks for my help with Mr. Grigg. I, of course, refused to accept it at first. Then, she explained why she wanted me to have it. It was partly to thank me and partly because she wished to be rid of it."

"Why should she wish that?"

"She'd bought it for Mr. Matthew. Mrs. Crawley wanted him to put a photograph of Lady Mary, the baby and himself in it to keep at his office," Mrs. Hughes explained. "After his death, she didn't feel right returning it and she didn't think Lady Mary would want it. So it sat there in her desk and haunted her in a way. She gave it to me to stop it from reminding her of what might have been.

"It was too nice for my sitting room and I didn't have a photograph that I wanted to display." She could hardly have a picture of Becky on her desk or in her room for anyone to see. "I remembered your picture of Alice and thought you could use it."

"So you gave the haunted frame to me?" Mr. Carson asked with a small smile.

"No! It's not haunted…" she began to defend herself, but stopped when she realized he was teasing her.

"You were right; I did need it," he admitted, staring anew at the silver item. "But I don't need it anymore."

"I still don't want it," Mrs. Hughes insisted.

"Then what are we to do with it?" Mr. Carson wondered with a sigh. "A fine frame like this deserves to hold the image of a happy family. That's what Mrs. Crawley intended for it."

Mrs. Hughes nodded thoughtfully. She could think of a happy family she wished to see pictured in that frame, but knew it could not be.

"You know…" Mr. Carson said tentatively. "There _is_ a way we could."

"Could what?"

"Could give this frame a family photograph worthy of its value; both monetary and sentimental, but…"

"But….?" She felt a flutter of hope in her chest. She knew he was likely to say that they give the frame to Lady Mary with a photo of Lady Mary and Mr. Crawley on their wedding day or something of that ilk, but there was the slightest hope he might say something else.

"We could…I know it sounds odd, but we could…" He looked up and their eyes locked. She was sure he was thinking what she was thinking. _We could be that family._

"Yes?" Mrs. Hughes prompted with her heart in her throat.

"We could give the frame to Anna; if we could find a suitable photograph, of course. There might be one in the staff album or perhaps Lord Grantham has something from the war. Just something to remind her of him and perhaps cheer her up," Mr. Carson concluded. "She's been understandably subdued since her return."

"And what would we tell her if she asks why we've given her this gift?" Mrs. Hughes managed to ask. His suggestion had truly surprised her.

"We tell her it is a temporary gift, just as her troubles are temporary. Once she and Mr. Bates are together again, they can keep an eye out for someone to pass it on to. To give her something positive to look forward to when she looks at the picture in the frame," Mr. Carson suggested.

"I'm not sure that I understand how it does that," Mrs. Hughes told him honestly.

"This frame isn't valuable because of the silver it's made of or even because of the image it may hold. What makes it valuable is that it is a gift." Mr. Carson could see that she still follow his reasoning. He wasn't sure he'd be able to properly articulate his point, but he had to try.

"Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Crawley gave you this frame because you helped her awake from her grief. She wasn't prepared to let it go until she could start to let him go. Then, you gave me this frame to help me heal my past heartbreak." He held up the frame and she saw for the first time that it was empty; the image of Alice Neale was nowhere to be seen. "And it accomplished that."

Mr. Carson truly believed that this frame had healing qualities; qualities that should be shared. He hoped Mrs. Hughes agreed, even with his inadequate explanation.

"So you would like to give it to Anna to help her through this difficult time of separation from Mr. Bates?" The housekeeper said doubtfully.

"To let her know we are thinking of her and to give her something to hold on to until they are together again," Mr. Carson nodded enthusiastically. "Which will be soon, God willing."

"And then you would have her pass it along to someone else?"

"Yes. Perhaps it is a silly notion born from sitting in the dark too much, but I think this frame should not be a possession which belongs to anyone. It should not be bought or sold, but it should always be gifted to someone who needs to be reminded that someone values them." _That they are loved._

She just stared at him. _Who is this man?_ She wondered. This was certainly not the man who scolded her for sentimentality with one breath before cooing at little Sybbie with the next. This was a new creature, finally more man than butler. He no longer hid his feelings behind a wall of strict discipline; not around her, at least. Mr. Carson was learning to voice his doubts. It appeared that he was also learning to accept his own human frailty and vulnerability. It was something she'd always hoped for, but never truly expected to see. There had been signs, small and rare, of his progress, but this was a huge leap forward.

"Well?" He prompted when she'd been silent too long.

"It isn't a silly notion, Mr. Carson, not at all," Mrs. Hughes assured him. "But you probably should avoid sitting and thinking in the dark for a while."

"You're probably right," he agreed with a chuckle.

_Who's hiding now?_ She cursed herself. Just as he used propriety, she used humor to handle difficult emotional moments. As usual, it worked. Mr. Carson tapped the frame one last time with a satisfied smile. The decision was made.

"I'll see if I can find a photograph from Africa and you look for one from the staff archives. When was the last time we did staff pictures?" He asked rhetorically before answering himself. "Just after the war, I think."

"Very good," Mrs. Hughes stood to leave.

"Mrs. Hughes?" He stopped her before she could make her escape. She'd opened the door and was so close. "Was there something specific you needed when you came looking for me?"

"It can wait," she tried to dismiss herself.

"But there's no logical reason it should since you're already here," he countered. "What was it?"

"It seems silly now, but I wanted your opinion about the jigsaw puzzles."

"Jigsaw puzzles?"

This perplexed face was the one that reminded her of the fish that hung on his wall. She hid her grin and slight giggle by turning towards the door and reclosing it.

"Lady Grantham has me purge the family jigsaw puzzles before Christmas each year. Usually, I split the old ones between the school, the hospital and the church."

"Has something changed?"

"I was hoping…You see, at the facility where my sister lives…"

He nodded for her to continue.

"…The residents like to do jigsaw puzzles on rainy days. I doubt they've seen anything like that last puzzle the family did. There must have been five thousand pieces."

"And you want to send it to them?"

"If you think that would be appropriate. It isn't within the county, mind, so I wasn't sure if Her Ladyship would approve. I'd ask her, but…"

"…She doesn't know about Becky." Mr. Carson concluded.

"Just so." Mrs. Hughes forced herself not to fidget or worry her lip as she waited for his verdict.

Mr. Carson took a moment before answering. This was a delicate thing because it was only the second time they'd discussed Becky since he'd learned of her existence. Then again, they were just talking about some puzzles.

"Mrs. Hughes, I thank you for asking my opinion, but I don't think you need it. Her Ladyship trusts your judgment on the matter and I see no reason to question that judgment. They're only jigsaw puzzles, after all. Send them _all_ to your sister if you like," he said with a magnanimous smile.

"One will suffice," she informed him. She was almost out the door before she turned. "And thank you, Mr. Carson, perhaps I did not need your opinion, but you've made my mind easier about it."

"My door is always open," Mr. Carson assured her. As if to punctuate the point, Mr. Molesley burst into the office through the door furthest from the desk.

"Mr. Carson, the menus for tonight are ruined!"

Mr. Carson did not even ask for an explanation as the footman held up a clump of soggy pages that had undoubtedly been the meticulously written menus for that evening.

"Send Andrew upstairs and have Mr. Barrow come down to help you rewrite them," Mr. Carson ordered, ignoring the amused grin on the housekeeper's face. "And stop carrying those dripping pages all around the downstairs; you're making a mess."

TBC…

* * *

**AN/ Whew! I'm very sorry for the tardiness of this update, but life is moving at warp speed and I'm moving like molasses in winter. **

**I thought this was an important subject to address. Why would she buy him a really expensive silver frame when money is so tight? My answer is…she didn't. It's still significant that she gave it to him, but Mrs. Hughes is not a frivolous woman, I don't see her splurging for a frame that he can put another woman's picture in. So, my RetCon (retroactive continuity) is that she already had the frame from another source; the upstairs folks being the most likely. I toyed with her admitting she'd stolen it from Lady Edith's wedding presents when they had to return them all, but that isn't exactly in character. **

**I haven't had much writing time and ZERO reading time****L**** I see all these great stories that have posted in my absence, but I can't read them yet. I hope to soon and will review when I do.**

**I don't think I replied to the last wave of reviews, but I will reply to these, if anyone wants to leave one.**


	7. Dream Approaching Reality

"Mrs. Patmore, have you seen Mr. Carson?" Mrs. Hughes caught the cook having her tea at the little table in the kitchen. "I've been looking for him half the afternoon. If he wants me to wrap the gifts for the male staff…"

"He left the gifts in his office," Mrs. Patmore interrupted loudly. "He told me to tell you and it slipped my mind."

From Mrs. Patmore's abnormally raised voice and fidgety demeanor Mrs. Hughes knew immediately that something was afoot.

"I see," Mrs. Hughes pretended to be satisfied with the answer she'd received. Mrs. Patmore visibly relaxed and Mrs. Hughes pounced. "And what did he tell you _not_ to tell me?" The housekeeper demanded cooly.

"What…what? I don't know what you mean." Mrs. Patmore squirmed in her seat.

Unwilling to debate Mrs. Patmore's ignorance, Mrs. Hughes went straight to the interrogation. She had a good idea where Mr. Carson had gone. "Do you know where he is?"

The cook nodded but her lips were clamped shut.

"Is he even in the house?"

"How…?" Mrs. Patmore's confused frown told Mrs. Hughes everything. Mrs. Hughes could count on one hand the times Mr. Carson had left the house without checking in with her first. There was only one reason he would have kept his errand from her.

"He's gone to the bank in Ripon to close on the house, hasn't he?"

"How did you know that?" Mrs. Patmore was incredulous.

"And he didn't want to bother me about it?" Mrs. Hughes further surmised.

"Sometimes it's eerie how well you two know each other," Mrs. Patmore observed as she returned her attention to her tea with a pout.

With an exasperated sigh, Mrs. Hughes sat down opposite Mrs. Patmore and took a shortbread from the cook's plate.

"Hey! I didn't put that on my plate as a garnish," Mrs. Patmore protested. "I was planning to eat that."

Mrs. Hughes ignored the consternation of her friend and nibbled thoughtfully on the buttery biscuit. Why was he hiding this from her again? "I thought we were past that," she muttered to herself.

Mrs. Patmore's expression softened as she realized that her friend was genuinely perturbed by Mr. Carson's subterfuge.

"I expect he's still hurt that you backed out of the venture," Mrs. Patmore offered. She still didn't understand why Mrs. Hughes had withdrawn. "He was relying on you to be part of it. You know how much he hates it when something doesn't go to plan."

"That can't be it," Mrs. Hughes disagreed. "I told him why I couldn't. It turns out, he didn't need my money. His plans didn't change."

"Didn't they? His plan was to buy a house…with you," Mrs. Patmore insisted. "You said it yourself; he didn't need your money."

"I'm sure Mr. Carson wanted to limit his risk by sharing the investment," Mrs. Hughes tried to convince Mrs. Patmore and herself. Why hadn't she thought of that before? He didn't need her money. He never had. What did that mean? Why had he included her at all?

It was Mrs. Patmore's turn to take the upper hand. "Do you honestly think Mr. Carson wants to run a bed and breakfast on his own? Don't you remember when Mr. Taylor left to run a tea shop with the missus?"

Mrs. Hughes had to chuckle at the memory of an incredulous Mr. Carson telling her that Mr. Taylor was going to leave Lord Grantham's employ to serve tea to 'the great unwashed'. You'd have thought he was leaving to open a brothel. As much as his snobbery often annoyed her, his dedication to traditional standards could also be rather endearing. Besides which, she had to admit she enjoyed watching him get worked up over something she considered trivial.

"Wait," Mrs. Patmore exclaimed. "What did you mean when you said you told Mr. Carson why you_ 'couldn't'_ invest with him?"

"Did I say that?" Mrs. Hughes deflected. "I meant 'wouldn't', of course."

"Of course," Mrs. Patmore said skeptically.

Mrs. Hughes gave her friend a look and finished off her biscuit. "I should get back to work, Mrs. Patmore. I haven't time for dawdling. I have a mountain of presents to wrap."

-00-

"Take your time to look over the papers, Mr. Carson," Mr. Pembry offered. "But I believe you'll find it all in order."

"I'm sure I shall." Mr. Carson dropped his eyes from the smiling property agent to the sheath of papers in front of him. He'd read the boilerplate language before but these papers were different. These had been especially prepared for this transaction; his purchase of the house on Brouncker Road. His name was on nearly every page; his name and hers. His name beside hers. He stopped reading at the first incidence of their names typed side by side. '…buyers Elsie Hughes and Charles Carson…'

He hadn't told Mr. Pembry about Mrs. Hughes' withdrawal from the project. At first Mr. Carson had been too shocked. Then he had clung to the faintest of hopes that he might change her mind, but he hadn't. The opportunity never arose for him to convince her.

_Who are you kidding?_ His inner voice chided. _You never even tried to change her mind; you didn't have the courage. _

_Bloody Mr. Molesley kept interrupting us._

_Tosh! _Came the emphatic answer. It was true; he could blame interruptions for only so many of the things he hasn't said. There had been opportunities, entire evenings, when they sat, blissfully undisturbed, and he had not availed himself of the chance. He knew what he had to say, but he was terrified of saying it. It would change everything.

There really was only one way of changing her mind; only one way that she would accept his financial assistance. It wouldn't be enough to tell her that he didn't consider his money his own. She would not accept his argument that they'd earned the money together; that he could not have done his job without her.

No, she would never believe that, even though it was true. From weddings to garden teas to church bazaars, Carson couldn't think of a single event he'd managed in the past twenty five years without her by his side. To think he would plan something as important as their futures without her by his side was lunacy. But this argument would not be enough to persuade her to let him finance their future endeavor together. Her pride would not allow it except for under very specific circumstances. He had no right to support her. That right could only belong to a husband.

Still pretending to read the document, Mr. Carson flipped the page. Mr. Carson ran his fingers over the black lettering of the contract. He found their names again. With his thumb he covered the words, 'Hughes and Charles'. The line now read, 'Elsie…Carson'. He sighed and turned the page to the final page of the document.

Perhaps he should have told Mr. Pembry to take her name off the official documents after all, but it was too late. At this point they would just put a line through her name and initial beside it as they did with last minute changes to legal documents. Somehow that was even worse than not having her included at all; a legal document with her name forever slashed out.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Hughes couldn't come today," Mr. Pembry said conversationally as Mr. Carson sat back from looking over the document.

"It's difficult for us to both be away at this time of year," Mr. Carson said honestly. "She's needed at the house more than I am and the paperwork doesn't really interest her." All true.

"Well, since we are taking the full payment from your account, it isn't necessary for her to be here."

"We've settled the finances between the two of us. It seemed to make things easier." Mr. Carson wasn't sure why he felt the need to continue the ruse for this man's sake. He just didn't want Mr. Pembry to know that Mrs. Hughes couldn't afford a sash on the house, let alone half the cost. Her finances were none of this man's concern. Not that the agent would have cared. Mr. Pembry didn't care where the money came from so long as he received his commission.

"When will you both be free to see the house?"

"Very soon after Christmas," Mr. Carson said hopefully. He tapped the contract and pulled out his pen. "I believe everything is shipshape and Bristol fashion, as they say."

"Very well." A bank draft was exchanged. "Then if you would initial here…here…and here...and sign here…we are completed, Mr. Carson. Congratulations."

Mr. Carson's heart refused to beat for a moment as he watched the ink of his neat, concise and lonely signature dry on the bottom of the document. It was completed. He was committed. _Have I just made a terrible mistake?_ He wondered what the law said about including someone on a legal document without their permission. Was what he'd done considered fraud?

"Thank you, Mr. Pembry, you've been a great help." In a daze, he shook the agent's hand and accepted the ring of keys. The contract would be filed with the county tomorrow, but that was just a formality. The house was his; _ours._

Still preoccupied, Mr. Carson exited the bank and headed to the bus stop. Up until this moment, he'd told himself that he would tell Mrs. Hughes about her interest in the house as soon as the deed was done. He hoped that his gesture would convince her that he was serious about committing to a future with her despite her financial woes, but now doubt gripped him. A new option was dawning on him; a cowardly option.

_What if I just leave things as they are? If something happens to me, she'll inherit the house and she can retire if she wants. She'll be taken care of but we can remain as we are, colleagues and friends, _he thought.

_Is that what you want, man?_ An angry voice asked him.

_No._

_Do you think that's what she wants?_ The voice persisted.

_No...Maybe...I don't know…I don't think so._

_Then stick to the plan; tell her._

_Yes!_ "Stick to the plan," he nodded emphatically.

"I beg your pardon?" The man beside him looked at Mr. Carson curiously.

"Nothing," Mr. Carson said with a blush. When the bus came, Mr. Carson was sure to sit several rows behind the man. He didn't recognize the fellow, but it would never do for him to observe Mr. Carson's state of perturbation all the way back to Downton.

TBC…

* * *

**AN/ For some reason, the thoughts in his head while he as signing the documents for the house are really important to me. I think that must have been the moment of no return for him. I hope I've reflected that.  
**

**Canon gift wrapping scene next... [not to be confused with the cannon gift wrapping scene.]  
**


	8. Symbiotic Dreams

_Stick to the plan._

The thought bolstered him as he rode in the back of the bus, but what was The Plan exactly? It wasn't very well defined; retire with Mrs. Hughes, full stop.

_'The secret is in the planning,'_ she had often told him. And the secret of the planning is in the details. He had a goal and a house. Beyond that, Mr. Carson's current plan was severely lacking in details. Many of the finer particulars could not be decided upon without Mrs. Hughes' participation. He knew that the best course of action was to get her involved as soon as possible.

Yes, that had to be his next step; asking Mrs. Hughes to believe in their little dream again. He knew she had not dismissed it as easily as it appeared. He knew she was trying hard to convince him that she was nothing but happy for him, but he saw how her eyes dropped sometimes when she did not know he was watching. Mr. Carson did not doubt that Mrs. Hughes had wanted to invest with him. Surely it wouldn't take much convincing to bring her back around. Perhaps he could even persuade her further.

How much would he need to say about his own feelings? If he said too little, she would think his offer came from a place of pity. If he said too much, he might embarrass her or make her uncomfortable working with him if she did not return the sentiments.

Would he need to tell her that he'd been thinking about their future together ever since she took his hand on the beach?

_No, it was before that; long before that, certainly._

Mr. Carson couldn't pinpoint the moment when their lives had merged together beyond the point of painless separation. He knew that it went back past her health scare and his ridiculous notion of going to Haxby.

_Ah, Haxby, what a folly that would have been. You dodged one there, mate._

He remembered something she'd said at the time, something to which he had not attached particular significance. _'But will you be happy? That's what I want to know.'_ Such selfless concern on her part; could he dare, in retrospect, to call it love?

He'd spoken true when he said he would regret leaving Downton every second of every day. He'd been honest when he told her that he was going because Lady Mary needed him and that was one of the reasons, but he had not told her everything. Though Sir Richard's attitude towards his own wealth offended Mr. Carson, one had to admit that it is unrealistic not to think of money. If only the nouveau riche understood that speaking of money so openly was vulgar. Still, the salary the newspaper man had offered would have allowed Mr. Carson to retire in style in less than 5 years. He would only have to be apart from her for a short time. Looking back, Mr. Carson realized that Mrs. Hughes had figured prominently in his thoughts of retirement even then.

No, he could not say when it had happened, but their fates were inextricably intertwined and there was no denying it.

_Like the holly and the ivy._ It was an apt metaphor considering the time of year. The woods around Downton were full of examples of this partnership; the prickly holly entangled with the gently resilient ivy. The ivy's broad, green leaves softened the sharp edges of the proud holly tree. They could exist separately, but after years of comingling, any attempt to separate the two plants would result in the death of both.

The bus pulled to a stop beside the war memorial. Most of the people on the bus hardly acknowledged the marble structure. _How quickly we forget,_ he thought to himself. Mr. Carson forced himself to ignore the dog sniffing around the base of the memorial and focused on his walk back to Downton.

The day was frosty. The air that filled his lungs was fresh and crisp. There was a hint of snow in the air. The world spoke to him of promise. The new year was just around the corner. The days would start to get longer now that they were past the solstice.

If he'd been lucky, Elsie would not know where he had been. He wasn't hiding it from her exactly, but he wanted to surprise her with the news that he'd completed on the house and gauge her reaction. He knew she would be happy for him, but would he see an inkling of regret behind her well wishes; longing?

Then he imagined telling her the whole truth. What would she think when he told her what he had done for them? In his scenarios she ranged from passionately angry to coldly grateful and every stop in between. Not surprisingly, he found that the response he would much prefer was passionately grateful.

_She won't be angry,_ he told himself. _Not when she realizes that I've done this for her. Not when she realizes _why_ I've done this for her._

The cluster of village buildings fell behind him swiftly as Charles Carson walked briskly. He replayed in his head all the positive responses he might receive to his offer of a stable future. They seemed more likely than the negative ones he would not dwell on. His face flushed with the exercise and a touch of embarrassment when his active imagination envisioned her jumping into his arms in joy. He knew Elsie Hughes would never be so demonstrative as that, but the prospect made him smile broadly nonetheless.

His head was held high and he gained confidence with each step towards Downton. He was a man of property now. Finally, he had something concrete to offer her. He had the means to make their dream come true.

At the back door Mr. Carson had to compose himself and wipe the smile from his face. He was not ready to tell her everything yet. He could not risk being interrupted. Christmas Eve was the best chance to find a moment alone. Mr. Carson only hoped his heart would not burst with happy expectation before then.

The door had barely closed behind him when Mrs. Patmore came rushing out of the kitchen.

"She knows," the cook hissed at him in a sharp whisper. "I tried not to tell, but…"

"Don't worry, Mrs. Patmore," Mr. Carson assured the flustered woman. "I only said not to bother her with my whereabouts. I didn't mean for you to keep it from her if she asked you outright, only not to volunteer the information."

"Oh," Mrs. Patmore said with a perplexed look. "I wish I'd known that an hour ago. I wouldn't have been so mysterious."

"You are many things, Mrs. Patmore," Mr. Carson smiled. "But mysterious is not one of them."

Mrs. Patmore wanted to be offended, but his smile was mischievous and contagious. She thought that boded well for Mrs. Hughes, very well indeed.

"Mrs. Hughes is correct, Mr. Carson, you are a daft man," she snorted with a grin before returning to her kitchen kingdom.

Mr. Carson returned his coat and hat to his room. He walked into the servant's hall ostensibly to see if he was needed in any matter. The room was empty, as it should be at this time of day. He took the opportunity to quickly check his appearance in the full length mirror at the base of the stairs. Mr. Carson pulled down at this waistcoat and the dignified man in the mirror smiled back at him. He did not see Mrs. Patmore catch him in the act.

He didn't bother to knock on the door as he entered, but announced himself with a clearing of his throat.

"Shut your eyes!" She admonished before he could begin his announcement. Her voice was high and she sounded chipper. He obeyed her, shielding his eyes from where she sat and turning back to close the door behind him.

Why hide the presents from him? Every year they exchanged practically the same gifts. She would buy him a tin of shaving soap and sometimes a new brush. He would buy her a book. This year he had settled on 'The Painted Veil' by Somerset Maugham. Mrs. Lewis at the bookshop in Thirsk had recommended it over 'The Man in the Brown Suit', the mystery novel he'd almost bought.

These thoughts flashed through his head in a thrice.

"I thought you'd like to know," he began with his eyes still shut and his hand held to his face. "I've bought the house. We've completed."

Mrs. Hughes looked up from her wrapping with genuine surprise and joy. Besides enjoying the sight of a grown man hiding his eyes like a child, she was delighted that he would share this news with her. She'd known about this development, but she hadn't expected him to tell her so soon.

"Why, I'm pleased. That's a nice thing to know before Christmas." The paper fully concealed the box she was wrapping and she decided to release him from his darkness. "You can open them now."

Mr. Carson dropped his hand and stole a quick glance towards the package she was wrapping, despite himself. It did look like it could hold a tin of shaving soap. His normal chair beside the door was piled high with boxes of he knew not what. Lady Grantham's gift stipend had been very generous this year. It looked as though Mrs. Hughes had bought half the fabric in Yorkshire for the maids and all the chocolates.

So his usual chair was filled as was the other chair beside the table. A bit thrown off by this change in routine, Mr. Carson made a noise that was half bemused surprise and half stubborn frustration. Mrs. Hughes returned resolutely to her wrapping. Her calm exterior belied her innermost thoughts.

_He's bought the house. Without me._ He was one step closer from leaving her behind. She was grateful that she'd had some warning from Mrs. Patmore about Mr. Carson buying the house today. She was also grateful for the distraction provided by the mountains of gifts to be wrapped. Without that distraction, she might not have been able to hide her personal disappointment from him. Instead, she was able to express only joy for his accomplishment.

_She took that well,_ he thought. _ It may be a good think she already knew. No need to dwell on it, however. Give her a chance to get used to the idea. _

"Will we be a big party?" He asked conversationally. He'd not yet been informed of the final numbers for Christmas. He trusted her to tell him what he needed to know. He was fairly certain it would just be the family. She would have mentioned otherwise.

"Family really," she answered as she selected a ribbon. Mr. Carson settled in her desk chair, feeling odd in the small chair. He couldn't remember ever having sat in it before. "Mr. Atticus and Lady Rose are coming, which is nice."

"His parents won't bother with Christmas," he noted sensibly, or so he thought.

Mrs. Hughes rolled her eyes as she continued wrapping. "Don't start."

Not entirely sure what he'd said that was wrong, Mr. Carson pushed quickly on. "Then I gather they're off to New York in January when Mr. Branson goes to Boston?" They both knew this perfectly well, but he wanted to change the subject.

"Yeah," she sighed wistfully, still focused on her wrapping. "I'll miss him, I don't mind admitting it."

Mr. Carson could only nod. He didn't want to admit how sorry he would be to see Miss Sybbie leave.

"I know you're uncomfortable with him," she looked up from tying the bow. "But I feel he's a sort of bridge between us all."

_She says that like it's a good thing._

"I'm _used_ to him. I'll say that," Mr. Carson conceded. Mrs. Hughes eyed him with bemused shock. He appeared to be genuinely saddened by Mr. Branson's approaching departure. _It's the child he'll miss,_ she thought.

"Heavens, don't let him hear," she needled gently. "It'll go straight to his head."

Mr. Carson accepted her teasing with a chuckle. Maybe he should mention his thoughts on Sybbie. She probably already suspected he harbored a soft spot for the child. Before he could confess his sentimentality to her, there was a knock on the door. It was Mr. Molesley.

_Who else would it be? _He thought wryly.

The now official first footman leaned into the room.

"Ah, Mr. Carson, might I trouble you for a moment, please?"

With a shrug and a look that seemed to say, 'Why do I bother sitting down?', Mr. Carson took his leave.

Mrs. Hughes smiled at him before he left. As the door closed behind Mr. Carson and Mr. Molesley, she let the smile fade.

Was it possible to be envious of an inanimate object? Mrs. Hughes thought it must be, for jealousy was the only word to describe the feeling in her heart when she thought of this new house; _his_ house. Downton was their house. They did not own it, but it had brought them together; kept them together.

This new house was like an exciting young mistress come to seduce Mr. Carson away from his humdrum marriage to Downton. He would spend time there on his days off, making it pretty, slowly building a life beyond Downton until one day…

_That's foolish thinking, lass! _Mrs. Hughes stopped her thoughts there. Her comparison didn't hold. Mr. Carson was not married to Downton, he'd made no promises. If he had, there would be no question of him leaving. _This is Mr. Carson we're talking about after all. _

But the fact remained that he was free to leave whenever he chose. Now that he was a property owner, he might reinvent himself whenever he chose. He was not trapped like she was. It was hard not to be a little bitter at the thought. Mrs. Hughes reminded herself that Mr. Carson would be relying heavily on her advice for the house. The thought cheered her. This house was still something they could share outside of Downton even if they could not share it as fully as she had dreamed.

TBC…

* * *

**AN/ OMG, life is crazy right now (in a good way). I can make no promises for timeliness but I will try.**


	9. Visions of Sugar Plums

Mrs. Hughes walked into a bustling kitchen. Mr. Barrow and Andrew were mixing the punch for tonight's party while the kitchen staff were getting a head start on preparations the family's Christmas dinner the next day. Mrs. Patmore wanted everything as close to oven ready as possible so her girls could enjoy the festivities.

"Oh my," Mrs. Hughes said appreciatively as she surveyed all the activity.

"Taste this, Mrs. Hughes," Andrew said, offering her a cup of punch.

"Maybe you'll write a cookery book, Daisy," the housekeeper suggested with an encouraging smile before taking a sip. "Maybe that's where she's headed."

Daisy and Mrs. Patmore exchanged proud glances.

"Oh, I hope you change your mind about your studies," Mrs. Patmore added. "Start the new year with a new determination. I can't bear for it all to go to waste."

"But you're always complaining to keep me from me work," the under cook protested.

"You know I don't mean it."

"Anything can happen for you," Mrs. Hughes told Daisy bracingly. "It's a wonderful feeling."

"Maybe," Daisy said, sounding unconvinced as Mrs. Hughes approved of the Christmas crackers for the party.

"And if it means a little extra work for me, so be it," Mrs. Patmore asserted a little too loudly to be anything but forced. "And Happy Christmas!"

Daisy and Mrs. Hughes laughed at Mrs. Patmore's animation. The cook really was trying to be supportive of Daisy, but her style of encouragement could never be called nurturing. Mrs. Hughes knew it was difficult for Mrs. Patmore to see her prodigy growing so independent, but the cook managed to put a brave face on. Mrs. Hughes could identify with that; trying to be happy for someone even as they grow beyond needing you.

Not wanting to be under foot, Mrs. Hughes vacated the kitchen, still chuckling to herself. As soon as she was alone in the hallway, she stopped laughing. She could not help but envy Daisy, a young woman with her whole life ahead of her. The world ahead of Daisy held more opportunities than a young Elsie Hughes could ever have dreamed of.

_'Anything can happen for you; it's a wonderful feeling._' She'd said it with the authority of someone who knew from experience, but Mrs. Hughes had never really known that feeling.

_Nor are you likely to, lass._

"Mrs. Hughes?" He'd caught her in a rare melancholy moment. He knew something was wrong, but Mr. Carson didn't know how to fix it. Instead of embarrassing her, he opted to ignore the weakness he'd just witnessed and act as though everything were as it should be. "I have some concerns about the Christmas menu."

"Then you should speak to Mrs. Patmore," she said curtly. She'd been uncharacteristically short with him lately, not that he'd noticed. His high spirits since completing the purchase of his house were unassailable. Truth be told, his cheerfulness was becoming increasingly difficult for her to stomach. She was happy for him, but his constant mirth was proving too much for even her munificence.

"I thought I should speak to you first," he insisted gently.

"Then speak."

He was thrown off by her brusque demeanor. Mr. Carson regretted his decision to make his inquiry, but there was no backing out now. "I'm not sure the food selections are appropriate for…someone like Mr. Atticus."

She rolled her eyes at him and grabbed him by the arm. "Don't parade your prejudice out here in the hallway for the whole staff to hear," she admonished.

"How is it prejudicial to ask an honest question?" Mr. Carson demanded as Mrs. Hughes herded a flustered butler into her office. "If Mrs. Patmore had asked-"

"Mrs. Patmore _has _asked and been answered," Mrs. Hughes assured him. She pointed for him to have a seat beside the door. She moved to her desk chair. "She's cooked for Lord and Lady Sinderby several times now and has learned a great deal about the kosher diet."

"I'm glad to hear it, but I don't see that what I said was so offensive. I was only wondering if a bacon wrapped turkey was the best choice for dinner given Mr. Atticus'_ restrictions."_

"Lady Grantham always insists on the turkey for Christmas," Mrs. Hughes reminded him. "Don't worry. There are other choices on the menu."

"A glazed ham? I'm not sure that's helpful," Mr. Carson challenged. "Why not add lobster while we're at it?"

"You know very well that the Dowager expects her ham." Mrs. Hughes shook her head. "If you must know, Mrs. Patmore is making pheasant and a roast beef for Mr. Atticus."

"Four meat entrees for a small family party of nine? It's extravagant and wasteful," Mr. Carson huffed.

"I've never been wasteful in all my professional life, Mr. Carson, and I'll not be starting now," Mrs. Hughes insisted proudly. "It's all planned. The staff will have turkey soup for luncheon on Boxing Day and beef stew for dinner. We'll send the left over ham to the Dower House as we always do." Left over food was never served to the family, but the Dowager Countess had never objected to receiving yesterday's meats.

Mr. Carson remained silent, knowing that he'd been defeated. He wasn't sure why he'd pressed the issue at all. Lady Grantham, Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore undoubtedly had considered Mr. Atticus in their meal planning. Maybe he was just trying to prove to Mrs. Hughes that he could be thoughtful about the young man. She seemed determined to think him antisemitic. He didn't understand the ways of Jews, English or otherwise, but Mr. Atticus was part of the family now and Mr. Carson needed to understand better if he was to serve the family.

"Now, kindly leave the meal planning to Mrs. Patmore and myself," she said with finality and turned to her desk. "Stick to your silver and your wine selections, you old booby."

This last was added in an exasperated tone under her breath.

"What did you just call me?"

Mrs. Hughes swiveled back to face an unhappy butler. Mr. Carson's brow furrowed so that it looked as though he had one great eyebrow. She hadn't meant to say it out loud.

"An old booby," Mrs. Hughes reiterated, though with less conviction than before. "But I meant that in the best possible sense."

"_Is_ there a best possible sense?" He asked with his eyebrows now raised and once more independent of each other. This was not a very auspicious beginning to an evening he hoped would secure his future happiness. It would never do for them to be fighting on Christmas Eve, but his feelings were genuinely hurt.

"I only meant that you were being…"

"Ridiculous?" He offered.

"I wouldn't say…"

"Ignorant? Stubborn?"

"Those are your words, Mr. Carson, not mine," she said with a smirk, trying to coax him into a better mood. The tilt of her head and the gleam in her eye told him she'd not meant anything unkind.

He pouted for a few moments before reluctantly giving in to her charms. "The best possible sense, you say?"

"The very best," she promised. "In Scotland, it's practically a term of endearment."

"Old booby?" His frown and tone broadcast his skepticism.

She only nodded for fear she would begin to laugh if she opened her mouth. Something about the way he said the phrase made it sound infinitely absurd.

"If you say so," he finally accepted. "But I'm not old."

"Well, you're not young," she countered and was rewarded with an involuntary chuckle from the defensive butler.

_She has a point there, mate._

"Yes, well, if I were younger, I might better handle this 'brave new world that has such people in't.'" he confessed. "I suppose there are just some things I won't ever get used to."

His sincere admission made Mrs. Hughes feel badly for berating him earlier. He was a snob, to be sure, and a Yorkshire man through and through, but for all that, she knew Mr. Carson wasn't prejudiced in a malicious way. He feared change and things he didn't understand. His narrow experience made him narrow-minded, but he had, on occasion shown he was capable of adapting. After all, he had learned to tolerate Mr. Branson despite the younger man's loyalty to religion and politics with which Mr. Carson vehemently disagreed.

Mrs. Hughes fondly remembered Mr. Carson's reaction to meeting Mr. Ross. He clearly had never met anyone like the jazzman before. If Mr. Carson had ever encountered anyone of African descent before that night, it would have been a delivery boy or servant in London. A suave, erudite gentleman like Mr. Ross was beyond Mr. Carson's experience. His questions to Mr. Ross had been awkward, but sincerely curious.

"I'm sorry for insinuating that you were being prejudiced against Mr. Atticus," she apologized. "It is Christmas Eve and I should have been more generous in my understanding. I know you were just trying to be thoughtful of his needs."

"Just so," Mr. Carson nodded emphatically. The knot in his chest of which he'd been previously unaware began to loosen. They were back in agreement. Tonight's plan was not ruined. "Thank you for acknowledging that, Mrs. Hughes."

"But please remember that he's as much an Englishman as he is Jewish, Mr. Carson. We don't have to make many accommodations for him," Mrs. Hughes advised.

"In fact," she spoke in a tone she reserved for only the most scandalous gossip. Mrs. Hughes leaned forward in her chair and Mr. Carson mimicked her unconsciously so that they were leaning towards each other conspiratorially. "I have it on good authority that he and Lady Rose intend to exchange Christmas presents."

Mr. Carson sat back, cast her a wry grin and was about to speak when a knock on her door stopped him.

"Yes?" Mrs. Hughes answered.

"Mr. Carson, you're wanted upstairs," Mr. Molesley announced.

"Thank you, Mr. Molesley," Mr. Carson answered as he rose.

"And so it starts," Mrs. Hughes commented with an exaggerated sigh as they exchanged knowing smiles. The guests for the Christmas Eve celebration were due within the hour. There would be no rest for the weary once the event began, she was sure.

-00-

"Are we guests or servants tonight?" Daisy asked.

"Both, I should hope," Mrs. Patmore answered.

"I think we're as good as the tenant farmers, thank you very much," Mrs. Hughes quipped. There was more behind those words than anyone could have suspected. She'd been thinking about farming and farmers a lot lately.

Farming was the option she'd rejected on at least two occasions, thinking a stable life in service infinitely preferable to a volatile life on a farm. Now she had to ask herself, was working in a house that was not your own any better or worse than working land that was not your own? She'd given her life to Downton, but it was not her home; the Crawleys could dismiss her whenever it suited them. How long had her father worked their land, only to be forced out when he had a few bad harvests on top of the ill fortune of being saddled with two daughters?

Was the life she'd chosen any more stable in the end? Had she made the right choices? Could she and Becky have been happy with Joe? Would Joe have still wanted to marry her if he'd known about Becky? Why was she thinking of Joe so much lately?

When had she started second guessing herself? She knew the answer to that. Things began to feel wrong, unstable, when Mr. Carson officially bought his house just a few days ago.

She had no room for regrets where Joe was concerned. He'd remarried shortly after she'd turned him away last time, just as he had before. He'd sent her an announcement along with a note asking her to be happy for him. She'd replied that she was happy for them both and it had not been a lie. She may have been Joe's first choice on both occasions, but she was never his only choice. She might not have any money to bring into a marriage, but she had her pride.

Mr. Carson's crisp step sounded down the stairs before she could let her thoughts wander down that oft trodden path again. She enjoyed watching him at events like this. He was a barely contained bundle of nerves and energy. He would spend the rest of the evening worrying about the comfort of every guest. His excitement was contagious and it kept the staff on their toes. She knew that he lived for nights like this and he could run on adrenaline into the wee hours of the morning if the event demanded.

"Mr. Barrow, Andrew, they're starting to arrive." He barely spared her a look; he was all business now. "Mr. Molesley can't manage on his own. If you could bring up the food?"

"Yes, Mr. Carson," Thomas complied. "You take those," he instructed Andy.

Mrs. Hughes stepped back as the two men left with their trays of food. She expected Mr. Carson to return upstairs with his under butler and footman, but instead he followed Mrs. Hughes from the kitchen into the corridor by his office door.

"I wonder if I might have a word later, if such a thing were possible?" Mr. Carson asked, trying to keep the nerves from his voice. His manner was stiff and formal.

"It's possible," she replied, a little confused by his question. Since when did he need to ask in advance to speak to her? Why was he acting so oddly? "Let me know when."

She was so thrown off by his request that she headed off to the servant's hall rather than to her office as she'd initially intended.

Mr. Carson nodded in satisfaction and watched her walk away for a split second before returning to the kitchen. Finding all satisfactory there, he gave a happy grunt and headed back upstairs. The dye was cast. For better or ill, the matter would be decided tonight.

TBC…

* * *

**AN/ I couldn't get it out of my head that The Scene can't have been the first time she called him an old booby. I wanted the phrase to have some significance when she used it, so I extended a pretty innocuous scene. Also, the line about _'Anything can happen for you; it's a wonderful feeling,'_ really struck me as tragic considering Elsie's situation and I wanted to highlight that. It's the other side of '_Go as far in life as God and luck allow.' _  
**

**'Brave New World', the novel wasn't published until 1931, but Mr. Carson was quoting from Shakespeare's ****_The Tempest, _****which was the source of Huxley's title.**


	10. Waiting is a Nightmare

Mr. Carson felt a little out of breath as he reached the door to the Grand Hall. It wasn't his fitness that was failing him, but his nerves. The reality of what he was going to do tonight made him lightheaded. He was going to finally speak to Mrs. Hughes as a man and potential helpmate rather than a coworker. If he was going to convince her to marry him, Mr. Carson knew he would have to drop every protection, every defense and every façade. She would not want to marry a butler; she _might_ be persuaded to marry a man. She certainly deserved a man.

He took a deep breath before pushing through the green baize door into the realm of the butler. His responsibilities could insulate him from his nerves for a little while yet.

Through the course of the evening, he never dared to openly look for her, but Mr. Carson knew where Mrs. Hughes was at all times. Whether she was taking a turn at the punchbowl to spell Mrs. Patmore or speaking soft, supportive words to Anna in a corner, he clocked her every movement looking for his opportunity. He knew that he would need to be near her when the caroling started. The first break in the singing would be a likely moment, but he needed to be close before someone else engaged her. Until then, he purposefully kept a distance between them. He could not risk a conversation with her in public. In his present state of mind, there was no telling what he might say.

Luckily, though luck had very little to do with it, when the singing began, only Miss Baxter separated him from Mrs. Hughes. Usually Mr. Carson enjoyed the carols at Christmas, but his mind was too distracted tonight to attend them properly. He was vaguely aware that he was singing off key. After what felt like an eternity to Mr. Carson, Lord Grantham called for a break in the singing.

_Probably just because his cup has run dry,_ Mr. Carson thought with mild disapproval. He couldn't blame His Lordship for enjoying his reintroduction to liquor, but the boisterous behavior was making Mr. Carson a little uneasy. Lady Grantham didn't look too thrilled either.

People moved back to the refreshment tables. Satisfied that Mr. Molesley, Mr. Barrow and Andrew were filling their trays with punch for the guests, Mr. Carson maneuvered expertly through the crowd. Despite his size, the butler had a skill for navigating crowded rooms without disrupting anyone. He saw it all as a great dance with dozens of dancers. So it was that he found himself standing beside Mrs. Hughes when Mr. Branson gave his short speech of thanks and began the round of 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow.' At this opportunity, Mr. Carson took his chance.

"Is this a good moment?" He asked in a voice as close as he possessed to a whisper. It was at least low enough that Mr. Barrow did not appear to overhear from beside Mrs. Hughes.

"It is if you want it to be."

-00-

Mrs. Hughes tried not to let her eyes follow him around the room all night as Mr. Carson strutted proudly and watched his footmen like a hawk. A round of punch and canapés had to be served before the caroling could begin. He was unlikely to relax before then. Though it was far from over, Mrs. Hughes felt comfortable calling the event a success. The only thing lacking was his presence beside her. She could not think of any event at Downton where he had not sought her out in the course of the affair to ask her opinion of the happenings or to compliment her planning skills. Though no one else would notice it, Mrs. Hughes realized that Mr. Carson was avoiding her.

The realization unsteadied her, but she was grateful for the space. Perhaps, like herself, he was distracted by their impending appointment. Distracted was an understatement. As she ladled out punch, her mind whirled with speculation. Why would he need to make a point to ask to speak to her tonight? He hadn't even mentioned sherry or wine, just speaking; 'having a word'.

_What could be that serious?_ Then the answer landed on her like a ton of bricks. He was going to tell her that he was retiring as soon as his house was ready. She almost spilled the cup she was filling. That had to be it. Professional courtesy and their friendship would dictate that he tell her before telling anyone else; perhaps even before telling His Lordship.

"I'm back," Mrs. Patmore informed Mrs. Hughes. "Thank you for giving me a break. I wanted a word with Mrs. Lumley. Her boy was in the war with our Archie and she was ever so kind to write to me after the memorial."

"I'm glad to help," Mrs. Hughes assured the cook.

Mrs. Patmore considered the filled cups with a bemused look. "You did more than help. Were you expecting a run on the punch?"

Mrs. Hughes looked down at her handiwork. The table was full. In her distracted state, she had used all of the cups and had almost emptied the punch bowl.

"Is there something going on?" Mrs. Patmore asked suspiciously.

"Why would you think that?" Mrs. Hughes answered defensively.

The cook merely gestured at the table.

"I was thinking about Mr. Bates and Anna," Mrs. Hughes lied. "I guess I wasn't paying attention to what I was doing."

Mrs. Patmore seemed less than convinced. Mrs. Hughes was at a loss, but she was saved when she spotted Anna. "There she is now. If you'll excuse me, Mrs. Patmore. Anna," she called after the listless lady's maid.

"Did you have a chance to open your present?" Mrs. Hughes asked as Mrs. Patmore watched her from her spot behind the punch table.

"I did," Anna replied with a slight increase in animation. "It's a beautiful frame, but I don't understand what you mean about it being charmed."

"It's a silly notion of Mr. Carson's, but I think it might have some merit," Mrs. Hughes explained.

"I'm still not sure I understand you, but I did as you asked and transferred our wedding picture from its usual wooden frame into the silver one." Anna shrugged in a gesture of powerlessness. "At this point I'm willing to try anything."

"I'm sure His Lordship's message about what Mr. Molesley and Miss Baxter found has reached Ireland by now," Mrs. Hughes said comfortingly. "Mr. Bates will be home anytime now. You'll see."

"But will that mean this nightmare is over or that it will just begin again?" Anna wondered.

"I wish I knew, my girl," Mrs. Hughes answered honestly. "But the first order is to have you both home. I know you can face whatever comes so long as you are together."

"How can you be so certain?"

"Because I've seen it first hand," Mrs. Hughes told her with a wink. "Come on now, the singing is about to start."

Anna and Mrs. Hughes headed towards the tree where Mr. Carson was visible above the heads of the assembly. Mrs. Hughes found herself very eager for the singing to begin. Mr. Carson always stood beside her for the caroling. Maybe he'd give her that superior grin of his when she mispronounced Wenceslas. She was disappointed, therefore, when she found Miss Baxter standing beside Mr. Carson. He did not even look at her as the music began. It wouldn't do to cause a scene, so Mrs. Hughes stood dutifully between Anna and Miss Baxter. During the singing, she tried to focus on Anna, giving the young woman encouraging smiles whenever their eyes met.

When Lord Grantham drunkenly interrupted the singing, Anna and Mrs. Hughes joined the crowd near the punch table.

"Am I to take that as a direct order, do you think?" Anna joked about His Lordship singling her out.

"I think you should," Mrs. Hughes laughed and pointed towards the table full of punch. Mrs. Hughes remained where she was. She could sense that Mr. Carson was standing behind her. She turned to him, but before she could speak Tom's voice rose over the din in the Grand Hall.

Frustrated at the interruption, Mrs. Hughes reluctantly joined in on the round of 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow.'

"Is this a good moment?" His voice cut through the singing voices, catching her off guard.

"It is if you want it to be," she answered, trying to hide her surprise and her trepidation.

She had not expected him to interrupt the singing. She had not expected him to seek her out until much later in the evening, perhaps after some of the guests had left. She opened her mouth to say as much but thought better of it.

Very seriously, Mr. Carson gestured for her to lead the way downstairs. Mrs. Hughes complied. She paused as the clapping ended and Tom announced that Lady Mary would be singing. With a sigh, Mrs. Hughes stopped where she stood and turned back towards the tree. Mr. Carson never missed the opportunity to hear Lady Mary sing. Listening to his favorite daughter of the house would surely take precedence over telling Mrs. Hughes that he was abandoning her.

To her utter shock, Mr. Carson's steps towards the green baize door did not slow or falter. He reached the door and looked back for her. The look on his face was one of confusion and maybe even consternation. She could see that he was nervous about telling her his news, but she was gratified to know that it was more important to him than Lady Mary's singing.

To cover for her delay, Mrs. Hughes grabbed two cups of punch from Andrew's tray as she passed him. This placated Mr. Carson and he gave a curt nod. He held the door open for her, but his long strides soon carried him before her.

TBC…

* * *

**AN/ I'm back! I thought we'd have a little He Saw/ She Saw for the upstairs party. THE Scene is next...**

**Thoughts, comments, pledges of devotion, etc are always appreciated;)**


	11. Love's Young Dream

Mr. Carson led the way downstairs with deliberate strides. His stomach was in knots. The sensation reminded him of the stage fright he'd experienced before every performance. He felt ill with a giddy expectation. He'd always fretted over remembering his lines and hitting his marks but the stakes were much higher now. Instead of a theatre full of demanding, if not discerning, punters he faced an audience of one; the most important audience of his life. He'd never been so nervous. The confidence that had followed him the past few days had suddenly deserted him.

He was only vaguely aware of Mrs. Hughes scurrying behind him, trying to match his pace but avoid spilling the punch she carried. She could hardly fathom his behavior; it was disorienting and a little frightening. He stalked into his office, allowed her to pass him and closed the door behind them. This confused her even more. No one was likely to come down here, why should he close the door? Ignoring the fluttering feeling behind her navel, she offered him one of the cups of punch.

_I will be happy for him. I will be happy for him. No matter what he says, I will be happy for him,_ she promised herself.

"I don't think I should." _I'll probably vomit._ Mr. Carson declined the beverage with a wave of his hands. Grigg had always laughed at Carson's nerves before a show. He'd insisted that a stiff drink right before going on stage was the answer. Carson had tried it once and had vomited whiskey stage left.

At the moment, he felt like an actor who had wandered onstage without a costume or a script. He could not think of his line and looked to her to save him.

"Go on. It's Christmas," she encouraged as she tried to press a cup upon him again. "Let's toast your new house." The smile on her face was forced, but the sentiment was sincere.

_I will be happy for him. I will be happy for him. _

_New house?_ Yes, that was what he wanted to speak to her about. He remembered the scene now. He'd rehearsed it a thousand times in his head. Now, if he could only remember his lines.

"Maybe I should mention one thing." His hands fluttered in front of him as if trying to weakly ward off an attack that never came. "You say 'your new house', but it isn't only mine." _It's ours._

"No?" _He found another partner?_ The thought stung.

She clearly didn't understand. He had to make her understand.

"No. I've registered it in both of our names." She blinked at him in apparent astonishment. "I hope you don't mind, but I hate to change a plan when there's no need." There it was. One simply did not alter the perfect plan, she had to understand that. She had been the one to teach him that.

_Why has he done a silly thing like that?_ She wondered testily. It was impossible for her to be angry with him, but she wished he had considered her feelings before taking such a drastic step. Now she had to reject him once again; ruin his dream yet again. It broke her heart to do it, but it would be deceitful to take advantage of his generosity.

_Unless it's not merely generosity…No, there is no 'unless', Elsie Hughes, there is only reality. You must refuse this act of charity. _

"Mr. Carson, I'm very appreciative_, really_, but I can't accept." She spoke as adamantly as she could muster.

Now it was his turn not to understand. He felt like he'd offered his best song and was being booed off stage for it. He was confused and a little hurt. "Why not?"

_Don't make me explain it,_ she sighed with frustration and rolled her eyes. _I don't want to go through all that again._ But his injured expression demanded an answer. He really didn't understand.

"Who knows what the future may hold, or how much longer we'll even be here." She raised her eyes upward as if to indicate the house, but she might have had a higher meaning. "Suppose you want to move away and change your life entirely." _Suppose the sky falls. _ "You don't want to be stuck with me."

He swallowed painfully, his throat threatening to shut down. "But that's the point," he insisted.

"What is?" The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. _What was he saying?  
_

"I _do_ want to be stuck with you." _Oh, very romantic, mate, _his inner voice taunted. This wasn't going exactly as he had imagined. _  
_

"I'm not convinced I can be hearing this right." _Don't fall for that old trick again, Elsie. Don't fool yourself into believing…_

_You've got to convince her, mate!_

"You are…" _Breathe, Charlie boy!  
_

"If you think…" _I'd be lost without you._

"I'm asking you…" _Do it, man!_

"To marry me," he managed laboriously. Each phrase felt like an exhausting battle, but it was worth it.

Mrs. Hughes' mind and body went numb. As a child, she'd fancied herself an ice skater after reading the story of Hans Brinker and the Silver Skates. She'd fallen through the thin ice on the watering trough after one step and had fallen into the shallow, icy water. The cold had been so severe that she'd nearly gone into shock. That experience had nothing on this. As a girl, she'd only fallen through to her knees. Now, she felt as if her whole body was submerged in the frigid water. She couldn't breathe. The whole world was frozen.

Mr. Carson waited for what felt like an eternity. It was like the interminable silence that followed a particularly difficult song and dance. Had the audience understood? Would they appreciate the effort that had gone into the number? Her expression was unreadable. _Was that disappointment or shock?_ He had to know. "Well?"

"Well," she found her breath, but only just. She shook her head and tried to focus on something in the room, fixating on the studs of his shirt. "You could knock me down with a feather."

_Is that good or bad?_ He took comfort in the fact that it wasn't a definitely negative reaction. It was like the first, tentative smattering of applause in an empty theatre. "You're not offended?" Insulting her was the last thing he would ever want to do.

His earnest concern at having upset her helped Mrs. Hughes focus on the moment. _Daft man,_ she half laughed to herself. _How could any woman be offended by being asked to become Mrs. Carson?_ "Mr. Carson, I can assure you the very last thing in the world that I am at this moment is offended."

_That's very promising_, he thought with relief. He felt a flutter of hope. Something about the way she said his name… _But she still hasn't answered the question._

She was stalling for time. She was touched, truly and deeply touched, but Mrs. Hughes knew she could not accept his offer unless she was sure of his motivations. He could just be offering this out of a sense of charity or friendship. Or maybe, like Joe, he just wanted a wife to share his declining years. If he was just seeking companionship for his retirement, Mr. Carson wasn't the type to look much beyond the obvious choices. It was either her or Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Patmore wasn't a good match, no matter how good her apple Charlotte might be.

She wanted to believe, part of her already believed, that his offer was born from a true affection for her, but she was afraid of fooling herself. It would hurt too much if she was mistaken. She only needed a little more assurance from him, even the smallest encouragement would do.

_She can't answer until she's sure of how you feel, mate. Tell her…but don't spook her!_

Like a groom with a spirited horse, Mr. Carson forced his voice to remain even despite the excitement that threatened to overpower him. "You can take as long as you like, I won't press you because one thing I do know;" _I love you and only you._ "I'm not marrying anyone else."

Her body tingled from within as the icy numbness was washed away by a wave of warmth. The thrill of being loved suffused her with happiness and calm. Her smile deepened, her eyes softened and she took her first full breath in minutes. This wasn't an offer for a marriage of convenience. This wasn't one friend just looking out for another. This was love. He hadn't said the words aloud, but she heard them all the same.

Joe was a nice man, but he had a farmer's mentality and a practical view on marriage. He would have married anyone. Apparently, Charles Carson was not as practical a man when it came to matters of the heart. His hopeful expression told her as surely as his words; he wanted to marry _her_ and no one else but her. He could love no one but her. It might seem a small thing to someone looking at it from the outside, but it was everything to Elsie Hughes.

Mrs. Hughes recovered her wits just enough to finally push the punch into his hands. He took the delicate crystal in his two great hands, careful not to touch her.

"Well then," she said, demurely looking down at her shoes before daring to look up into his adorably perplexed face.

"What exactly are we celebrating?" He looked childlike in his vulnerability. She could not resist the urge to tease him just a very little.

"We're celebrating the fact that I can still get a proposal at my age."

Her cheeky and radiant smile almost convinced him that she'd accepted him, but he needed to hear the words.

"And that's it?" _Blast it, man, you said you wouldn't press!_

_So much for not rushing me into a decision,_ she smiled to herself at his eager impatience. She shook her head and pressed her free hand to her chest. Mr. Carson could not tell if she was near tears or laughter. He was quite sure that he was near tears. She stepped closer to him; very close.

"Of course I'll marry you, you old booby," she chuckled through her gathering tears of joy.

All the tension and the doubt that had gripped his heart to this point released in an instant. His breathing became normal but his eyes began to prickle with impending tears. She had accepted him. Their dream had risen from the ashes stronger than before; not just an investment together, but a marriage.

"I thought you'd never ask."

His emotions overwhelmed him as her words sunk in. He realized that she had never really given up on their dream. She'd only been waiting for a foolish old booby to claim the incredible gift that was her heart. It was a gift that had long been his for the taking if he'd only let himself see. At this revelation, his throat seized completely and he fought back tears. He looked down, ashamed but not ashamed of his sentimental display.

She lay her hand on his arm and he finally looked into her eyes. Neither of them could speak, but they didn't need words. Twenty years of the unspoken words between them was expressed in that glance.

_I love you.  
_

_ I've loved you for so long. _

_I've been a fool. Thank you for waiting for me._

_Thank you for loving me. _

_I promise to make you happy._

_You've already made me happy._

_I'm still afraid, but I trust you._

_Whatever comes, we'll always be together._

Her hand tightened on his arm. He nodded infinitesimally.

_Together. Always.  
_

TBC…

* * *

**AN/ I'm ending the update here because this is where the scene ends. Any subsequent chapters will be purest speculation. **

**The acting, the writing, the editing, the sound design, the set design, the costume design, the hair and makeup for this scene were all just perfection. It's hard to mess with perfection. I hope you like my little embellishments.**


	12. Joyful and Triumphant

They stood in his pantry, physically connected by a hand on an arm, but more closely connected by a solemn promise.

Charles wanted to say something, but he could not speak around the heart beating in his throat. He looked into the eyes of his future bride and felt calm; reassured. She did not expect him to speak. She seemed to instinctively understand that spoken words could only dilute the moment.

_ 'Know when to leave the stage, Charlie boy,'_ Grigg had once told the less cheerful of the Charlies. '_Don't get greedy. When you can't do any better, you can only do worse.'_

It was the only good advice Grigg had ever given him and it certainly applied here. He'd offered and she had accepted him. The moment was perfect. He should stop there. Yes, there were many details and logistics to discuss, but none of that mattered now. The promise had been given, his future happiness secured. If he said anything more, he was only likely to muck it up.

Elsie watched him struggling to speak. She remembered one of his favorite Shakespearean quotes; 'Silence is the perfectest herald of joy; I were but little happy if I could say how much.' She wondered if he was thinking the same.

Charles saw her smile deepen and felt her hand squeeze his arm again. _You're one lucky duffer, mate,_ he thought. Then a saying from his grandfather jumped into his head. _'If you don't open your mouth, lad, you can't put your foot in it.'_

Content not to speak, Charles became acutely aware of the drink he held. He swallowed audibly and his eyes flickered to the punch. He was a little disoriented. Weren't they were supposed to be toasting something? What was it? Their new house? The fact that she could still get a proposal? Her acceptance? All of these and so much more?

Reading his mind, Mrs. Hughes began to raise her crystal cup to her lips. _My Mrs. Hughes_, he thought with a grin as he mirrored her movements. Charles licked his lips in anticipation. Their lips touched the rim of their cups at the same moment, watching each other over the opposite edge of the cup. Charles sipped slowly, an act both innocent and sensual. Even though he was not tasting her lips directly, he knew exactly how her lips tasted at that instant. The flavors dancing on her tongue also danced on his. They shared these sensations despite keeping a chaste distance.

Charles had read of lovers separated by miles who take solace in the knowledge that they are looking at the same stars. He'd always dismissed this as a silly, sentimental notion, but he understood now. Simultaneously sipping their punch together was a sort of kissing by proxy. He watched as she finished her drink and licked her lips. His own tongue darted out to catch the last of his punch and then something wet hit his nose.

Startled, Charles looked down at the slice of lemon that had flopped onto his nose out of the tipped cup. The room filled with the sweet and sparkling laughter of his fiancé. Grinning, Charles set the cup on his desk and reached for his handkerchief but Mrs. Hughes was too quick for him. She'd already set down her own empty cup and retrieved her soft and simply embroidered handkerchief. Her right hand still rested on his arm as she reached up to dab at his nose with her left.

Charles held his breath at first, startled by her boldness. Even when he was ill, he could not remember her touching his face. She might have wiped his forehead when he was fighting Spanish Flu, but he had no recollection. When he did breathe in, his lungs were filled with the scent of lavender and vanilla. It was the smell he associated with her, but he'd never inhaled it so deeply before. The effect was intoxicating. He closed his eyes and sighed.

Elsie couldn't believe how much self-control it took for her not to caress his face when he sighed like that. One day she would have that opportunity; that right. _But not yet_, she reminded herself.

Charles opened his eyes. She was still patting his nose dreamily. He reached up and gently took her hand. His large hand covered hers and swallowed up the handkerchief as well. _'My nose is quite dry now,'_ his smirk said.

She smiled guiltily up at him. She released his arm and brought her other hand up to cover his. She held Charles' hand in both of hers level with her face. She felt his hand twitch as if he wanted to reach out and stroke her face or her hair. Elsie wanted to kiss his hand, wanted to seal their promise with some physical exchange but she was afraid he might think it improper. There would be other opportunities, she thought.

Noise from the upstairs party grew louder as someone opened the upstairs door. Feet sounded on the stairs as someone hurried down and into the kitchen. Judging by the stamping feet, it was Molesley or Andrew.

"Just leave the glasses in the kitchen and bring up the last of the punch," Thomas called down.

Mr. Carson frowned. He hated when Thomas just shouted down the stairs. It was lazy. Orders should be given face to face. He had half a mind to open the door to go up to remind Thomas. He started to turn towards the door but he felt her squeeze his hand and turned to see her amused face.

_Let it go; it's Christmas_, her expression said.

She'd caught him and he couldn't deny it. He rolled his eyes in a rare show of self-deprecation.

They stood, holding hands and listening as the unidentified footman clambered back up the stairs. They heard the door close. They knew it was time to return to the party. They would be missed soon.

They left the glasses on his desk. He opened the door and ushered her out of the office. His movements were sure and graceful again, unlike his nervous movements from earlier in the evening. He followed her closely up the stairs, a hand hovering near the small of her back.

They could hear Lord Grantham's voice raised on the other side of the door; in another world. Before she opened the green baize door, they shared a knowing glance and a deep, fortifying breath. Once they walked through the doorway, they were butler and housekeeper again. Mr. Carson found that the faculty of speech had returned to him.

Ignoring Lord Grantham, he leaned down and asked, "Sherry tonight?"

Had his voice always sounded so seductive when he invited her for their evening sherry, she wondered before giving him a warm smile and a tiny nod.

Nothing had changed between them, he thought. _Nothing and everything._

Lord Grantham was done speaking. People were clapping. A carol began, 'O Come All Ye Faithful'. The newly engaged couple walked past Anna and stood near the back of the assembly with some of the tenant farmers.

No one observing them would have found anything odd in their demeanor. Perhaps the butler stood a little straighter than usual. Perhaps his chest puffed out a bit more. Perhaps a smug smile pulled at the corners of the housekeeper's mouth. Perhaps her eyes shone more brightly than they had twenty minutes ago. Perhaps they were transformed from the inside out, but no one was observing them.

TBC…

* * *

**AN/ Thank you for the thoughtful reviews. I'm going to TRY to keep this speculation realistic...so I'll not be going anywhere near M. **

**I would try to venture a guess as to how many more chapters to expect, but I am always wrong. It will be more than 3 but less than 100.**


	13. A Tea Cup of Oloroso

**AN/ Purest speculation from here on out. Maybe slightly less interior monologue. **

* * *

"I see you've anticipated me," Mr. Carson said, indicating the tray with the sherry decanter and two tiny, crystal glasses.

"Are they finally gone, then?" Mrs. Hughes asked of the smug looking butler standing in her doorway.

"Andrew is ushering the last of them out now," Mr. Carson informed her. "Thomas is handling the final rounds upstairs and I said I'd lock up down here."

"So they won't be coming back down tonight?" The question sounded more seductive than she'd intended and she blushed.

He enjoyed how the pink washed over her cheeks. "There's no reason for them to."

Mrs. Hughes wasn't sure why she was so shy with him all of a sudden. It wasn't as though they were alone downstairs. The kitchen maids were making a minor racket as they washed up quickly but carefully. Mrs. Patmore had promised them a late start in the morning if they didn't break anything.

"Well, don't linger in the doorway, Mr. Carson," she invited with a tenderness she usually hid from him. He smiled at her, enjoying the new way she said his name.

"I thought we might open an Oloroso for this evening," he held up a small bottle Mrs. Hughes had never seen before.

"Is there a special occasion you're celebrating?" She asked with a sassy grin.

"It's Christmas," he smiled back, matching her sass. Mr. Carson entered her sitting room and poured two ample portions into the glasses. He handed one glass to her.

Mrs. Hughes smiled up at him happily. He looked so confident and relaxed; himself yet open. Things were finally decided between them and the last walls around his heart were down.

"You should close the door before we're interrupted," Mrs. Hughes suggested as she considered the wine. The liquid was richer in color than their usual sherry. She smelled a sweet, nutty fragrance when she wafted the glass underneath her nose.

Mr. Carson nodded in agreement and turned back to her open door. He did not want any disruptions this evening. He'd finally come to grips with the reality that she'd accepted him. He was eager to speak to her about their future. His emotions had been too raw earlier in the evening to do so. He might even be able to tell her…

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Carson! I could surely do with a nip," the excited cook exclaimed as she rumbled through the door and took his sherry from him. She promptly plunked herself down in the chair nearest Mrs. Hughes' desk; the one Mr. Carson had planned to sit in. "You'll never guess what's happened!"

Mrs. Hughes would have laughed at the flabbergasted expression on Mr. Carson's face if she wasn't equally put out by Mrs. Patmore's presence. "Mrs. Patmore," she began calmly, but Mrs. Patmore was not in any state to listen to any words of dismissal.

"Pour yourself a drink and sit down, Mr. Carson," the stout woman ordered. She looked around and it dawned on her that there were only two glasses. She downed her drink in one gulp and held the empty glass up to him. Mr. Carson looked at her as though she were trying to hand him a bomb.

"Suit yourself," she shrugged and poured another portion for herself. "Get another glass, if you like, or there's a tea cup behind you. But be quick about it. I've some news that you'll both want to hear."

"Can it not wait until the morning?" Mrs. Hughes urged hopefully, seeing that Mr. Carson was about to explode at the unsuspecting cook.

"Well, if you don't want to know that Mr. Bates is back…" Mrs. Patmore said with exaggerated nonchalance.

"What!?" Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes demanded in unison.

"Are you certain?" Mrs. Hughes asked.

"Saw him with my own two eyes, didn't I?" Mrs. Patmore said with satisfaction now that she'd gotten the response she'd hoped for. She sipped triumphantly at the sherry. "This is the good stuff, innit, Mr. Carson? What's the special occasion?"

"Christmas," he mumbled absently, still in shock. How had Mr. Bates come back without his knowing? To be fair, he had been a little preoccupied. Mr. Carson took a teacup from a shelf behind him and poured it full of sherry before sitting down in the chair beside the door. "When did you see him?"

"When the second round of caroling started up. He snuck up and surprised Anna. Haven't seen either of them since, if you know what I mean." She gave Mrs. Hughes a cheeky grin. The sherry was not her first 'nip' of the evening and the Oloroso had a higher alcohol content than the usual sherry.

"Thomas won't like giving up being His Lordship's valet," Mr. Carson commented into his drink, more to himself than to anyone.

"Anna's husband returns home after months of hiding from the law in another country, months of separation, and all you can think of is how it affects staffing?" Mrs. Hughes asked incredulously.

"It's my job," he frowned at her seriously. "And yours too. After all, are you sure that Lady Mary was attended tonight?"

"All of the lady's maids were given the night off," Mrs. Hughes answered him sternly, but then her face changed. "Oh, dear, I need to make sure I have someone to cover for Anna tomorrow. They should be left to enjoy their reunion."

Mr. Carson raised his eyebrows but wisely stopped himself from asking who was worried about staffing now. Mrs. Hughes accepted the silent criticism with a smirk.

"How did he look?" Mrs. Hughes asked Mrs. Patmore.

"Healthy," Mrs. Patmore assessed. "And very happy."

"I imagine he's relieved to be home," Mr. Carson nodded. "This is good news. Thank you for telling us, Mrs. Patmore. Now I think Mrs. Hughes and I need to discuss how this will impact the household plans for the week." His tone left no question that she was being dismissed.

"Oh, urhm, alright," Mrs. Patmore faltered. Her sherry was gone and she had nothing else to tell them so she set down her glass and rose. Mr. Carson also stood. He held the door open for her.

"Good night, Mrs. Patmore," Mrs. Hughes called pleasantly after her departing friend.

"And a good night to y–" The cook was cut off midsentence as Mr. Carson closed the door firmly in her face.

Mrs. Hughes tried to scowl at Mr. Carson for his rudeness, but her stern countenance devolved into silent laughter, hiding her smile behind her hand. Mr. Carson sat down beside her, set his half empty cup on the table, and pulled the chair away from the wall to be closer to her. Their knees were almost touching.

"Do you think I was too harsh?" He asked, clearly not caring if the answer was yes.

"Perhaps a little."

"Shall I call her back and apologize?" He offered.

"That won't be necessary," she stopped him with a wide grin. "You can apologize just as well in the morning. And if you hadn't been so brusque, she'd have lingered all night," Mrs. Hughes admitted.

"Well, we couldn't have that, could we?"

She shook her head as she set aside her sherry glass. She reached out and offered him her hand. Mr. Carson took it immediately.

"So, you haven't changed your mind now that you've had time to think on it?" Mr. Carson asked.

"The more I think of it, the happier I am," she beamed back at him.

"I know there are a lot of questions to be answered about timing and logistics and…"

"None of that worries me, Mr. Carson," she assured him. "But there is one thing we need to settle tonight. It wouldn't do to leave it until tomorrow."

Her suddenly serious tone worried him. He sat up a little straighter and held her hand a little tighter. "What's that?"

"I just need to say…" Mrs. Hughes took a deep breath and looked directly into his concerned eyes. "What you've done…suggesting we buy a house and…what you did tonight…was brave; so very brave."

Mr. Carson didn't respond. He didn't want to interrupt her. Whatever she wanted to say was obviously important to her.

"Even talking about retirement was the first big step. I'll admit that I've been nudging and pushing for you to open up to me for the past few years, maybe longer, but I was never brave enough to take any big step, only little ones. Until now."

She drew her chair towards him. His pinstripe clad knees parted to allow her to scoot even closer. Charles could feel her knees pressed between his. His heartbeat quickened and his breathing became shallow. He felt hypnotized like a bird caught in a cobras gaze in Mr. Kipling's story.

"You left me one very big step. I doubt what I have to say will come as a surprise to you. If it wasn't true, I wouldn't have accepted your proposal, but I think you'll agree that it needs to be said."

"I'm not convinced I can be hearing this right," he said in a low, breathy voice.

"_You are_ if you think I'm telling you that I love you." Her voice almost failed her. Tears filled her eyes but did not spill over. "I love you, Charles Carson."

Elsie gripped his hands tightly. "I've never said that to any man before because I've never felt this way before. It feels wonderful to say it."

"Not half so wonderful as it is to hear it," Charles insisted.

"I wouldn't know," she teased, leaning towards him.

"Let me remedy that," he smiled and leaned closer to her. "Elsie Hughes, I love you."

For the second time that evening, Charles was close to tears, overwhelmed by the sweet novelty of expressing his feelings. Their eyes were locked and their hands entwined as their face drew closer together. She could smell the sherry on his breath; sweet and rich. He was aware of his hands shaking as he held hers. Her proximity was too much temptation for him to resist. Before Elsie knew what he was doing, Charles leaned down and pressed his lips to the back of one of her hands.

When he straightened back up, he backed away slightly. _That was too close,_ he thought with a shudder, but he could not regret his actions. He took up the sherry in the tea cup and finished it in one swig.

"You were right," she said. "It is even more wonderful to hear than to say."

"And here I was about to admit that I was wrong. It felt beyond wonderful to finally say it."

He'd only ever said 'I love you' to one other woman in his adult life but it hadn't been like this. He'd been pleading with Alice not to reject him. _'But I love you.'_ How very different it felt to simply say, 'I love you' and have it accepted. Not just accepted, but reciprocated.

As if reading his mind, Elsie asked, "But you've said it before."

"When I was young and woefully mistaken," Charles insisted. It hurt to think that she might compare herself to Alice. There was no comparison in his mind. "I was like a child who encounters a pond and calls it the sea. Now I am a man who has discovered the ocean. What I felt for her was nothing compared to what I feel now."

She could see the earnest truth in his eyes. She reached up and touched his cheek where a lone tear had fallen from his eye.

"I understand," she whispered.

_You always do,_ he thought.

They began to lean towards one another again. They were improperly close; dangerously close, but neither seemed to care.

There was a thud, a grunt and a curse as Mrs. Patmore collided with the locked door. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes separated and pushed their chairs back to a respectable distance. Mr. Carson rose and opened the door.

"What's the meaning of locking the door?" Mrs. Patmore blustered. "I nearly broke my beak just now."

"I must have locked it by accident. I'm sorry," Mr. Carson apologized. Mrs. Patmore looked at him skeptically.

"Yes, well, I just wanted to let you know that Liam came down to steal a biscuit so I sent him to slip a note under the Bateses door."

"What does the note say?" Mrs. Hughes inquired, almost afraid to know.

"Just that neither of them are expected to report for duty tomorrow, but they're welcome to join us for Christmas luncheon."

"You sent him just now?" Mr. Carson wanted to know. It was rather late and he'd have to stay up to lock up after the lad returned.

"No, it were just after I left you, but the girls have finished in the kitchen and I wanted to tell you before I went up. He should be back any moment." The backdoor opened. "Speak of the very devil."

"Then I guess we can all go up now," Mrs. Hughes exclaimed. As much as she wanted to spend more time with Mr. Carson, she knew they were playing with fire. It was best to let their passions cool a bit overnight.

Mr. Carson left to lock the backdoor. Mrs. Hughes straightened a few papers on her desk hoping Mrs. Patmore would leave also, but she did not. Mrs. Hughes felt Mrs. Patmore's eyes on her. Mrs. Hughes hoped that her face was not as flushed as it felt.

After locking the backdoor and his office, Mr. Carson loitered at the bottom of the stairs until the women joined him.

"Are you waiting to escort us up the stairs, Mr. Carson?" The cook teased. "I think we know the way."

"You've been drinking, Mrs. Patmore," he replied. "I want to make sure you don't take a wrong turn."

Mrs. Patmore laughed raucously at that. "You sleep in a bathtub _once_ and the world won't let you forget."

The three senior staff climbed the stairs together; a tipsy cook followed by a housekeeper and butler almost equally intoxicated but by other means. They did not speak until they came to the landing where Mr. Carson's path would deviate from the women's.

"Good night, Mrs. Patmore," he said.

"G'night, Mr. Carson," the cook slurred in return and continued to climb.

"Good night, Mrs. Hughes, and Happy Christmas." His hand briefly covered hers on the banister.

"Very happy so far. Good night, Mr. Carson," she winked at him before following Mrs. Patmore.

TBC...


	14. A Better Man

Upstairs in the bathroom Charles Carson prepared for bed in a euphoric state. He hummed to himself as he wet his head and toweled some of the pomade from his hair. He couldn't believe his good fortune. Mrs. Hughes loved him. She would soon be his wife. Could life be any more perfect?

When he was down to just his shorts and vest he considered his reflection. He stepped back so he could see more than just his shoulders and face.

Admittedly, he wasn't what he had been in his youth, but he didn't think he was too far gone. His shoulders were not as broad as they had once been but they were still broad. He'd acquired some girth but he carried it with dignity. The mussed hair on his head was as much grey as black but at least he still had a full head of hair.

_Not bad for your age, Charlie boy,_ he thought, sucking his gut in a little and turning to the side. Still, he wondered that the years had done this to him when they'd only made Mrs. Hughes more beautiful.

The thought of her, his fiancé, made him smile. Instantly, the man in the looking glass looked twenty years younger. He even saw a little spark of the rebellious spirit that had caused him to stray from service for a time. He saw the cocky confidence that had made him the ideal footman when he'd returned from the stage. His confidence had waivered in the years since the war. The world seemed determined to leave him behind. All the changes, coming in quick succession had unsettled and frightened him, but the constancy of her friendship had seen him through every crisis.

Now, her promise made the future something for which to yearn rather than something from which to run. She awakened feelings and dreams in him that he'd long thought dead.

_And what do you do for her?_ His conscious asked. He frowned in answer.

She'd agreed to marry him. There must be something he offered her that no one else could. Charles hoped that she felt that she'd received similar support from him through the years, but it was hard to imagine. What _had _he done for her over the years that could compare to all she'd given him?

He sometimes took her side when Mrs. Patmore was being unreasonable. More often than not, he acted as a neutral observer. Much less often, he acted as reluctant mediator in their conflicts. He'd been caught between the hotheaded cook and the fiercely resolute housekeeper more times than he cared to remember. No, he'd not been much help on that front.

He'd tried to lessen her load when she was dealing with her potential illness. He'd only succeeded in upsetting her. A chill passed through him. Charles did not want to dwell on memories of that time.

Recently, he'd offered words of encouragement as she worried about Anna and Mr. Bates, but he couldn't be sure how much comfort she'd derived from his empty platitudes. Charles felt ashamed for not being more caring towards her. She deserved better than a gruff curmudgeon for a husband. Comforting and nurturing were not words Charles would ever use to describe himself, but it was not beyond his power to change that.

He locked eyes with his reflection resolutely.

He'd held back his feelings and his affection for too long. If he wasn't too old to find love, he wasn't too old change for the woman he loved. How long had she pressed him to be kinder; not just to her, but to everyone?

_She agreed to marry you and Mrs. Hughes does not suffer fools, so you can't be completely hopeless, _he reminded himself. _She must see something in you, mate. Prove her right._

He would start tomorrow by apologizing to Mrs. Patmore.

As he passed the bathtub on his way out of the bathroom, he smiled to himself. Even though he would have to eat crow in the morning, he was rather proud of having put Mrs. Patmore in her place by reminding her of the bathtub incident. If he lived to be a hundred years old, he would never forget that morning.

_A frightened hall boy had been sent to wake him before six. Unable to discern what the lad was saying, Mr. Carson had allowed himself to be led to the bathroom. There, he found all the hall boys and footmen standing around the bathtub. As he approached, he saw that the newly promoted cook was sleeping cozily in the tub. She'd made a nest using what looked like every towel from the hamper._

_Surrounded by the hall boys, she'd looked like a scene from a Christmas panto featuring Snow White. Or she would have if Snow White snored like a hibernating bear. Or if they'd woken Snow White by poking her with a shoehorn and she'd awoken with a bloodcurdling scream._

_Mrs. Patmore had panicked as several of the boys attempted to hold her down, fearful that she was likely to hurt herself getting out of the tub in such a state._

_At a loss for what to do, Mr. Carson had been grateful when he heard the door between the women's and men's corridors unlock. _

_'I heard a scream,' Elsie had said, bustling into the men's bathroom without a second thought. Taking in the scene in an instant, she'd put her hands on her hips and frowned down at the confused cook. 'Ah, there she is. Thank goodness she's alright.'_

_'That's a rather optimistic assessment,' Mr. Carson had grumbled. Elsie ignored him._

_'Poor Candice has been looking for you since five, Mrs. Patmore.'_

_'No need to shout,' Mrs. Patmore had winced and covered her eyes._

_'She can't stay here,' Mr. Carson had pointed out. 'My lads need to get ready for their day.'_

_'Of course. If I could have a moment with her in private, Mr. Carson, I believe I can get her out of your way.'_

_With one gesture, Mr. Carson cleared his lads from the room. 'Please be quick about it, Miss Hughes. Much more delay will disrupt everyone's schedule.'_

_'Understood, Mr. Carson,' she'd nodded as he closed the door._

_Thirty seconds and a few loud splashes later, Miss Hughes and a wet-headed Mrs. Patmore had emerged from the bathroom. _

_'Thank you, Elsie,' he'd said as she passed by supporting most of the weight of an angry and still disoriented cook. He was genuinely impressed by her calm and efficient demeanor. She'd been head housemaid for less than five months. She was only standing in as housekeeper while Mrs. Curtis visited her ill sister, but she was acquitting herself very well. 'I don't know what we would have done if you hadn't come to help.'_

_'What are friends for?' she'd answered back with a quick smile. He wasn't sure if she was saying she was his friend or Mrs. Patmore's. 'Happy Christmas, Mr. Carson.'_

Over twenty years later, he could still picture it. It probably wasn't the first time she'd smiled at him, but it was the first time he noticed her dry wit and sparkling eyes.

He reached his room and climbed swiftly into bed. The hour was late and he did not want to be tired and cranky tomorrow. After pulling the bedclothes up to his chest, Charles ran his thumb across his cheek where she had touched him earlier. His skin felt icy and hot at the same time. His lips felt very much the same as he remembered pressing them to the softness of her hand.

As much as Mrs. Patmore's interruptions had annoyed him, she had probably saved them from crossing the line of propriety. He took a deep, steadying breath. Today's events had been overwhelming on so many levels. He'd been hopeful in the morning, but actually securing her promise and exchanging pledges of love with Mrs. Hughes had exceeded his every expectation.

The immense relief and joy that he felt had been nearly impossible to contain. Maybe tomorrow he would be more accustomed to the passions rising up within him. Maybe tomorrow he would have better control over his impulses to touch her, his need to kiss her. He doubted it very much.

TBC...

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**AN/ Just a short one from his POV. Next update, her POV of the night after.**

**Also, I've added a little more to the Beryl bathtub incident (since you guys seemed to like it). I'm done with it for now, but I'll flesh it out in an epilogue after we're done with our two old boobies. **


	15. Grateful Reflections

"Goodnight, Mrs. Hughes," the red faced cook said as she began to open the door at the top of the stairs.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Patmore," Mrs. Hughes replied. "And Mrs. Patmore?"

"Yes?"

"For the record, that is the bathroom you are entering, not your bedroom."

"I am well aware of that, Mrs. Hughes," Mrs. Patmore glared at her grinning friend. "For your information, I was going to make water and clean my teeth."

Judging by the confused look on Mrs. Patmore's face, Mrs. Hughes wasn't sure she believed her friend's assertion but allowed Mrs. Patmore to save some shred of dignity by leaving her unchallenged.

"I certainly count myself lucky," Mrs. Patmore slurred slightly as she opened the door.

"Why is that, Mrs. Patmore?"

"With friends like yourself and Mr. Carson about, I'm in no danger of ever forgetting my most humiliating moments," she chuckled good naturedly.

Mrs. Hughes laughed as Mrs. Patmore winked and disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind her. Mrs. Hughes walked down the hallway towards her own room and towards the locked door which separated the men's and women's dormitories. How easy it would be to silently unlock that door and slip into her fiancé's room unseen, she thought. She knew from years of sharing a wall that he usually prepared for bed in the bathroom while Elsie preferred using the basin and pitcher of water in her room for her evening washing. If she were quick about it, he would find her waiting for him when he returned to his room.

_'An' then what, lass?'_ Elsie asked herself. '_Even if you were still fully dressed and all you wanted was to see him to say a private goodnight, it would be inappropriate enough to drive Mr. Carson into a panic. If you dared to ask for a goodnight kiss, you'd probably scare the poor man back into the 19__th__ Century.' _

She smiled to herself wryly and the key remained on its hook beside the door. Mrs. Hughes retired to her Spartan bedroom. So much had happened since she left her room this morning. There had been plenty of changes for one day. There was no reason to rush things. She would be content with how things stood at the moment. Elsie leaned back against her door, cast a grateful look heavenward and gave thanks for the miracle God had wrought.

Stepping further into the room, she removed her dress and corset with practiced alacrity. As she prepared for sleep, Elsie chuckled over Mrs. Patmore's traditional festive overindulgence. Elsie hadn't thought of her first Christmas at Downton in years. How nervous she'd been while covering for the absent Mrs. Curtis. She was still adjusting to Downton and Mr. Carson had intimidated her despite being an improvement over the last butler under whom she'd worked.

Downton had been quite different from her experience at Thirlestane Castle. The house was grander than Downton in many ways, but it had been a bleak place to work. As at Downton, standards were high, but unlike Downton, the family were rude, demanding and unappreciative. These attitudes were reflected by Mr. Wilson and Mrs. Morrison, the grim butler and dour housekeeper, who distrusted and schemed against each other constantly. Caught in their petty sabotages and machinations, the staff were treated more like slaves than servants.

The only consolation was that the wages were above average. Elsie had applied herself, learned a lot and done well, but she knew there was no future for her there. Even if she'd wanted to stay on, the head housemaid was only two years older than Elsie and she was the butler's niece. It was understood by all in the house that she was destined to be the next housekeeper.

Even with her eventual succession all but guaranteed, Veronica Wilson had been jealous of the clever and well-liked Elsie. For the three years Elsie worked at Thirlestane, Veronica and Mr. Wilson had joined forces to ensure Elsie Hughes understood her place in the household. Mrs. Morrison had not been cruel to Elsie, but neither had she ever gone out of her way to defend her most capable maid.

None of the upper staff ever complimented Elsie's consistently exemplary work. If she erred, which was rare, it was broadcast across the household, upstairs and down. More often, she was made the scapegoat for Veronica's mistakes and laziness. Elsie had been deeply unhappy throughout her tenure there. She wanted out, but she needed the money to send home and couldn't quit. Leaving for another position in service would have been difficult without a positive reference, which she seemed unlikely to receive.

Her dissatisfaction with her circumstances had been the main reason she'd been vulnerable to Joe's first, tentative advances. She'd met him six months before she left Thirlestane. After enduring constant censure and disapproval, hearing Joe's kind compliments on her half days had been like an oasis in the desert to Elsie.

As the courtship advanced, Elsie had made up her mind to accept Joe when he asked for her hand, if only to escape her predicament at Thirlestane. She knew he would be asking soon. Joe was a widower with a young son. He was in need of a wife with a steady disposition and strong work ethic; a woman like Elsie. Elsie was certain that he would be willing to welcome her sister and mother into his household if he believed that Elsie would be a good wife. She'd already dropped hints about her mother but she would not tell him about Becky unless absolutely necessary.

Before Joe could ask Elsie to marry him, however, Mrs. Morrison told Elsie of an opportunity in Yorkshire. Elsie was surprised by this kindness as Mrs. Morrison had never shown any signs of liking Elsie in the least. Still, Elsie had been grateful and had jumped at the chance to escape her prison.

Joe had proposed to her the day she left for Downton. She still remembered the conversation as they walked amongst the headstones at Melrose Abbey.

_'You needn't go to Yorkshire if you don't wish it, Elsie,' he'd said, kicking at a clod of dirt._

_'I have to go, Joe. I cannae abide Veronica and her uncle much longer. There's no future for me at Thirlestone.'_

_'That doesn't mean there isn't a future for you here.'_

_'What are you saying, Joe?'_

_'Would you consider staying for me? I've grown awfully fond of you, lass.'_

Fond. That was the word that exactly suited what she'd felt for Joe. If there had been anything more, she might have accepted him that day. As it was, fondness was all she ever felt for him.

_'I'm to start at Downton Abbey the day after tomorrow, Joe. There's a garden party in less than a month. They're in dire need and I've given my word that I will be there.'_

_'Surely you can come back after you've seen them through the garden party,' he'd scoffed. Obviously, he didn't think much of such things. _

_'Hiring and training staff is a lot of work. I'd need to work there at least six months to feel that I've not misled and inconvenienced them.'_

_'I can wait six months for your answer.' His tone hinted that he wouldn't wait much longer than that. He was clearly hurt that she hadn't jumped at the chance to marry him, but he endeavored to put a brave face on it. He wasn't ready to accept that he'd wasted the past six months courting her. _

Hedging her bets, Elsie had come to Downton to evaluate her potential future remaining in service. If it offered prospects as barren as Thirlestane, she would tell Joe about Becky and, if his offer still stood, she would accept him. Elsie was ashamed to remember how pragmatic and calculating she'd been about Joe.

Upon her arrival in Yorkshire, Mrs. Curtis, the Downton housekeeper, had taken an instant interest in Elsie. Under an attentive and supportive hand, Elsie's skills of organization and leadership had flourished. She found her work fulfilling in a way she'd forgotten existed. Then, less than five months since her arrival, Mrs. Curtis called Elsie into the housekeeper's sitting room.

_'Elsie, I've just received news that my sister is very ill. Her Ladyship has granted me leave to help nurse her. I've assured her that you can very ably fulfill my duties in my absence.'_

_'How long will you be gone?'_

_'I don't know. She's quite ill. It may be several weeks.'_

_'You'll be gone over Christmas?' Elsie almost panicked at this news._

_'Perhaps, but I trust you can manage it. Christmas is very much like any other day. There are a few traditions to observe, but Mr. Carson can guide you through those.'_

_When it was clear that Elsie did not find this as comforting a thought as Mrs. Curtis had intended, the older woman asked, 'Is there a problem between you and Mr. Carson, Elsie?'_

_'No. Not really, I just don't think he'll welcome the prospect of having to train me.'_

_'Mr. Carson will welcome whatever Her Ladyship orders him to welcome,' Mrs. Curtis insisted. 'Besides which, training new staff is part of what the butler and housekeeper do.'_

_Elsie was still unconvinced. _

_'You don't require training; you only require a little instruction. Mr. Carson won't mind.'_

_'I'm not so sure about that.'_

_'Well I am. Shall we call him in and ask?'_

_'No!'_

_'You're not afraid of Mr. Carson, are you Elsie?' The housekeeper had asked with a kindly smile._

_'Perhaps a little,' Elsie had admitted. 'Mostly I'm afraid of letting the house down and disappointing you both. I would hate for standards to be lowered in your absence.'_

_'But I must go. I am sure things will run just as smoothly as ever while I am gone.'_

_'I shall try, but you and Mr. Carson work so well together. He trusts you.'_

_'And he has no reason to distrust you. So long as you don't give him a reason, he'll give you every chance to succeed. He won't want to inconvenience the family so he will give you whatever assistance you require. He is a consummate professional.'_

_'Of course he is; I didn't mean to imply otherwise.'_

_'If it will put your mind at ease, Elsie, I shall let you in on two little secrets about Mr. Carson,' the housekeeper said conspiratorially. 'I know people think Mr. Carson is a hard task master, but the person he is hardest on is himself. Whatever standards he expects of the staff, he expects even more from himself.'_

_Elsie nodded. This was not a secret to the observant Elsie Hughes. 'And the second secret?'_

_'If there is time at the end of the day, offer him a glass of sherry. He's much more reasonable over a glass of wine.' _

_'In my experience, alcohol makes people less reasonable,' Elsie quipped._

_'Too much alcohol, yes, but a nip of sherry is not too much for a man Mr. Carson's size,' Mrs. Curtis assured the reluctant head housemaid. 'I'll tell Mr. Carson that I've given you permission to use my sherry decanter and glasses while I'm away.' _

Elsie had filled Mrs. Curtis' shoes naturally and had found Mr. Carson to be very helpful and not at all resentful of her ignorance of Downton traditions. He was actually rather proud to be passing them on. It helped that Elsie never needed to be told anything twice. Mr. Carson invited her to join him for tea some afternoons when they needed to discuss things without the staff as an audience. Though things were comfortable between head housemaid and butler in Mrs. Curtis' absence, Elsie had not been brave enough to invite Mr. Carson for sherry until after the Cook in the Bathtub incident.

A few days later she'd wanted to talk to him about how much leeway to give the staff, particularly Mrs. Patmore, on New Year's Eve and she'd invited him for a sherry. They'd resolved the main issue easily and had spent the rest of the evening talking about literature, Scotland and the trials of running a large house. It was the first time she'd seen him smile and the first time she'd seen a glimpse of the man behind the butler. It had only been a fleeting glimpse, but it was enough for her to know that she wanted to know more about that man.

Mrs. Curtis returned just after the New Year but the housekeeper's sister never fully recovered from her illness. By the end of the year Mrs. Curtis had left Downton to care for her sister as well as her sister's husband and family. Elsie had become Mrs. Hughes instead of Mrs. Burns. She had inherited Mrs. Curtis' sherry decanter and glasses. The rest, as they say, was history.

Elsie heard Mr. Carson's door open and close just as she was drying her face. The feet of his bed scraped slightly as he climbed in. Elsie doused her light and lay down in her own bed. She replayed his sweetly insecure proposal and his disarmingly honest avowal of love in her mind over and over again; first one and then the other.

She brushed where he'd kissed the back of her hand with her fingertips, trying to recapture the thrill of feeling his lips there. With a watery smile she remembered the moment they'd both leaned in for the kiss that hadn't come. His lovely face was a mixture of confusion, fear and desire. No doubt he was confused by the emotions stirring inside him brought on by this wonderful development in their relationship; she certainly was. She could see that he was fearful of committing any impropriety in the time between their engagement and their marriage.

Tonight, his desires had almost overcome his innate sense of propriety. She was sure they would have kissed if Mrs. Patmore hadn't returned. She'd seen her own longing reflected in his dilated eyes. Elsie knew that he wished to kiss her but it was now up to her to give him permission and encouragement to do so. Having escaped such a close call, he would be more vigilant against his compulsions. Mr. Carson would never do anything beyond kissing her hand unless he understood how much she welcomed something more and maybe not even then.

How could she tell him that she wanted him to kiss her without coming across as a wanton woman? She worried.

_But he would never think that of you,_ her mind told her. _He knows you and respects you too much, lass. _

_Respect; such a simple word for such a complicated idea,_ she thought. One's personal concept of respect was almost as complex and individual as one's definition of Love.

_The two feelings are more closely related than the poets tell you,_ she reflected. _It is possible to respect someone without loving them, but impossible to love without respect. _

Respect was what she found at Downton. Respect earned through hard work and competency. Respect from a stern but fair-minded butler with high standards. Respect from a man she respected. Respect that in time had turning into Love from the man she loved.

Elsie slowly realized that she was crying; not the hot tears of anger or pain, but warm tears of joy and thankfulness. She smiled into the darkness and once again gave thanks for the narrow and winding road that had brought her to this happy moment. The way ahead might not be any clearer or easier, but she would not be walking it alone.

TBC…

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**AN/ Sorry for the long delay. This chapter wanted to be so many things; it was hard to contain it. Next update…the morning after.**


	16. Christmas Morning

Christmas morning finally dawned over the rooftops of Downton but most of her inhabitants had been active well before sunrise. Mrs. Hughes had heard Mr. Carson leaving his room well before five in the morning, which was typical for a Christmas. It was Downton tradition that the family's annual descent from their sleepy rooms to the cache of presents beneath the tree take place under the watchful eye of the butler.

Each year Mr. Carson would later give an account of the scene to Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore. When the girls were young he would vividly describe the frenetic tumble of limbs and pulled hair that rolled down the stairs as Nannies and a very sleepy Cora admonished them to act like little ladies. As the years rolled on, the young ladies matured and the hair pulling lessened, though it never completely disappeared. After the girls were grown and even during the somber war years the family kept up the tradition of rising early to see what Father Christmas had left. Family gifts were opened as the morning wore on, but the unwrapped offerings from jolly ol' St. Nicholas were the main source of excitement for the children.

The past few Christmases had witnessed the return of childlike wonder to the event. Just last year Mr. Carson had relayed the story of Miss Sybbie, having apparently awoken her little cousin and snuck him out of the nursery beneath Nanny's nose, patiently letting Master George back his way slowly down the stairs, one excruciatingly slow step at a time. By the time George had reached the first landing Sybbie was dancing on the spot with anticipation. Mr. Carson had intervened and carried the lad down the last of the steps. Her familial obligation thus discharged, Sybbie was finally free to explore the delights under the tree. While George toddled unsteadily towards the tin trainset, his cousin had skipped off in search of the tea set she'd requested of Father Christmas via the letter her father had written.

_'Christmas just makes more sense when there are children in the house,_' Mr. Carson had concluded. Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore had smiled at each other, both suspecting there was no child at Downton that anticipated Christmas half so much as the man seated before them.

This Christmas morning Mrs. Hughes took her place at the breakfast table humming a carol. She smiled thinking of the day ahead. She wondered if the butler, _her butler_, was in as joyous a mood as she was. She smiled at Mr. Carson's place which sat empty beside her. She knew he'd already eaten a quick meal of bread and jam before heading up to the grand hall to await the family's arrival. It was less breakfast than that to which he was accustomed but Mrs. Patmore would remedy that. There would be a rasher of bacon and a boiled egg along with the scones laid out with the mid-morning tea the three heads of household traditionally shared on Christmas. After his appetite was appeased, Mr. Carson would regale them with to tale of this morning's events. Elsie was anxious to hear how Marigold fared on her first Downton Christmas.

Her happy thoughts were interrupted by Andrew and Mr. Barrow joining the company at table.

"I wonder what's gotten into Mr. Carson," Thomas commented as he sat down. "Mrs. Hughes, do you have any idea what's happened?"

"I expect it's just the Christmas spirit," she answered, hiding a smile behind her tea cup.

"Well, if it's a Christmas spirit, it's the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come," Thomas quipped. "He's in a foul mood and no mistake."

"A foul mood?" Mrs. Hughes asked in wonder. "Are you sure?"

"Not that he'd let the family see, but he cornered poor Andy here in the upstairs pantry and lit into him for forgetting the sugar spoon."

"That were my fault," Daisy said, bringing a fresh batch of toast to the table and setting it in front of Andrew. "I asked him about Christmas in London while he were filling the sugar bowl. I'm sure it just distracted him."

Andrew smiled gratefully up at her.

"It doesn't signify who was at fault. It was a storm in a teacup," Thomas shrugged. "I just used one of the tea spoons and no one noticed."

"Mr. Carson noticed," Andrew reminded him.

"Even for Mr. Carson, that's splitting hairs," the under butler noted.

"And on Christmas?" Mrs. Patmore put her oar in as she came in search of Daisy. "That's not like him." She looked at Mrs. Hughes, a question in her eyes.

Mrs. Hughes shook her head and frowned. This report from upstairs was unsettling. What could have put him on edge like that? For the briefest moment she thought it might be a sign that he was regretting his proposal, but she dismissed that notion at once. His feelings and intentions were genuine, of that she had no doubt. Something else had upset him. If this year held to form, it would be at least another hour before he came down and she could get to the bottom of this mystery. Until then, she must carry on as usual and hold fast to the surety that Mr. Carson loved her, no matter how grumpy he might be.

-00-

Charles Carson stood beside the hearth in the Grand Hall. The fire and the lit tree cast the only light on the silent scene before him. He loved this calm before the chaos of Christmas.

He smiled to himself as remembered the noise and activity in the hall the night before that had concealed his words as he leaned down to ask her, _'Is now a good time?'_

Mrs. Hughes had been startled by his words, he could tell, but she recovered quickly. He'd almost succeeded in rendering her speechless with his offer of marriage.

_Almost,_ he chuckled.

Mr. Carson's experienced eye ran over the pile of presents under the tree. Lady Grantham had placed most of the family presents beneath it several days ago. The expensive paper and bows needed time to be appreciated before they were torn away, discarded and forgotten.

The unwrapped gifts from Father Christmas had been added by the hall boys after the last of the guests departed last night. Master George's pop gun lay propped beside a broomstick pony ready for many a hunt. Miss Sybbie had also received a pony and a large, stuffed rabbit. Little Miss Marigold was too young for a broomstick pony, but Father Christmas had left her a colorful set of blocks and a polka dot rubber ball.

Yes, everything was prepared and as it should be. Mr. Carson spared a quick, sad glance to the spot in front of the hearth where Isis had waited beside him for over a decade of Christmases. Her first Christmas she had almost run off with the set of fur-lined slippers Lady Grantham had bought for His Lordship. By next Christmas there would be a new dog in front of the hearth.

_There might be a new butler as well,_ he thought with a frown. He wanted to stay on at Downton after marrying Mrs. Hughes, but it wasn't up to him. The cold truth was he was as replaceable as the dog in the grand scheme of things. The house and the family would carry on no matter what happened to Charles Carson.

_And a Happy Christmas to you too,_ he chided himself. _You really are acting like an old booby. This should be one of the happiest days of your life. _

Activity on the gallery saved him from his melancholy thoughts. Whispered voices echoed in the vast hall. Mr. Carson could discern at least two distinct voices, but neither sounded like children. Indeed, one voice was far too deep to be anything but a man's voice.

"You're sure they won't mind?" The man asked.

"Of course not. They won't begrudge you what everyone must experience at least once in their lives," his companion answered.

"What's that?"

"Being the first down on Christmas morning to see the gifts beneath the tree," Lady Rose informed her husband. For it was indeed Mr. Atticus and Lady Rose who now appeared at the top of the stairs.

Giggling with anticipation, Rose pulled her curious husband down the stairs after her. They were both still wearing their nightclothes and gowns.

"I think Father Christmas has left you something," she pointed towards the tree.

"For me?" Atticus sounded amazed. He followed Rose to the tree and looked where she was pointing. A new, felt hat was perched on top of a stack of wrapped gifts.

"I hear every banker in New York must have a hat just like this," Lady Rose said proudly.

"However did Father Christmas know?" He asked with a grin.

In their teasing, neither had noticed Carson standing by the fire. Hoping to avoid any embarrassment, the butler lightly cleared his throat.

"Oh, Carson!" Lady Rose started but recovered swiftly. "We were just coming down in hopes of catching Father Christmas on his rounds."

"I'm afraid you've just missed him," Carson returned, his face betraying nothing. "I asked him to stay awhile, but he's very busy this time of year, you understand." It was the pat answer he'd given all the Downton children at one point or another.

Rose was delighted by this answer and by the confused look on Atticus' face. Just then, a door was heard upstairs.

"That's the nursery door, My Lady," Carson informed her. "The children will be here soon. Might I suggest that you step just here?" He indicated a column behind which they could both hide but which would offer a view of the staircase.

Lady Rose and Mr. Atticus hid just as the top of Sybbie's head bobbed into view. They could see that she was running back and forth along the gallery.

"Hurry, Georgie," she called to her cousin.

"Where's baby?" George asked. His tiny hand appeared on the bannister and he was now visible between the stanchions.

"Auntie E will bring her soon," Sybbie reasoned. Apparently she'd learned her lesson about waiting for babies to slow her down. "Come on! Let's see if he's come."

George's head peeked around the railing at the landing. "He's still here," George whispered in an awed voice.

"That's just Carson," Sybbie laughed at her gullible young cousin. "He guards the presents after Father Christmas leaves them. Happy Christmas, Carson."

"Happy Christmas, Miss Sybbie, Master George."

Carson's reassuringly familiar voice gave George the courage to climb down the last few steps and approach the tree. Within half a minute he and Sybbie were chasing around the Grand Hall on their ponies.

Shortly, Lady Edith appeared on the stairs carrying Marigold. The child's eyes were big with wonder as she sucked noisily on her fingers.

"Good morning, Carson," Lady Edith greeted him.

"My Lady," he bowed.

"I see we've missed Father Christmas again," she joked.

"Not by five minutes," he assured her. This revelation brought Sybbie to a sudden halt and George crashed into the back of her. They tumbled down in a laughing pile. Marigold clapped at the scene and wriggled to be let down. She quickly discovered the ball and was soon occupied chasing after it before rolling it to George who would gallop by on his might steed and kick it back to her.

The noise in the hall slowly roused the sleepers in the family rooms. Slowly the adults filtered down in various states of sleep. Lady Rose and Mr. Atticus came out from their hiding place to join the fun. The children thought Mr. Atticus looked quite funny in his fine hat and his night clothes. Lord Grantham looked as though he might be regretting his enthusiastic fall from the wagon the night before. Carson rang for a refreshment cart.

"Are all of these gifts for Sybbie?" Mr. Branson wondered as he saw the small mountain upon which the stuffed rabbit sat.

"Papa thinks if he gives her enough toys, you won't be able to pack them all and you'll be forced to stay," Mary teased.

Lord Grantham held his head and grumbled something incoherent. The earl smiled weakly as he tried to enjoy the children's enthusiasm but failed. Though not hung over himself, Carson felt his own mood beginning to echo that of his employer.

Andrew arrived with the cart laden with all manner of pastries. The cart also had coffee and tea for the adults as well as warm milk and cocoa for the children. Carson frowned as the cart passed by. A teaspoon was set beside the sugar bowl and the sugar spoon was nowhere to be seen.

_Ah, well, these things happen on Christmas,_ Carson reminded himself. It was early, after all. It was still well before seven and it was unlikely any of the footmen had even had time to eat. Mr. Molesley was on second duty and would relieve Andrew and Mr. Barrow after eating his breakfast.

_At least the Dowager isn't here yet, _Carson consoled himself_. Still, it must be addressed. The loss of standards is a slippery slope and I mustn't let a sugar spoon be the first step down that slope._

Water and headache powder were waiting at the ready in the upstairs pantry should His Lordship request it. Anticipating Lord Grantham's need, Carson sidled up beside him and discreetly offered to fetch the headache powder.

"I think it will take something stronger this morning, Carson," Lord Grantham frowned.

Carson understood perfectly and nodded. He headed into the library to fix a whiskey and water for the ailing earl. It would be more water than whiskey.

"I thought I could use a bit of quiet as well," Lord Grantham said as he entered the library. He took his drink from Carson and headed towards a settee. Flopping unceremoniously onto the plush furniture, Lord Grantham drank deeply of his curative. Knowing that Mr. Barrow and Andrew were watching over the rest of the family, Carson remained to wait on His Lordship.

"It's happening again, Carson," Lord Grantham moaned.

"My Lord?"

"He's taking her away again," he said simply. "This time for good."

Carson nodded his understanding.

"I've tried to understand. I know it's what Tom feels is best, but…" He waved his empty glass. Carson took it and began to prepare another drink.

"It's not easy, Carson. She's our only connection to Lady Sybil. It's like…like…"

"Like losing her all over again," Carson finished as he handed Lord Grantham his newly filled glass, again, more water than whiskey.

Robert looked up into Carson's deceptively placid face. For the briefest instant they were equals in their pain and frustration. They were as powerless now to stop the inevitable as they had been when Branson had taken Lady Sybil to Ireland to be his wife. They were as useless now as on the night Lady Sybil was torn from them.

"Exactly," Lord Grantham agreed.

"Then might I suggest, My Lord, that you enjoy the time you do have left?"

"You're right, Carson. If this is to be her last Christmas, I don't want to miss a moment of it." Quickly downing his drink, Lord Grantham, known to his grandchildren as 'Donk', fortified himself to head bravely back into the fray.

"At least I know that you'll never desert me, Carson, and I believe I'll take that headache powder now," Lord Grantham sighed.

With His Lordship's words still echoing in his ears, Mr. Carson removed to the upstairs pantry to prepare the headache powder. For the first time, the butler began to worry about how his news would be received by the family. Would His Lordship consider it a betrayal? Would they be turned out on the spot?

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Carson," Andrew said cheerily as he came to refill the coffee urn.

Andrew's glib and casual manner proved the proverbial straw on the camel's back.

"Happy Christmas?"

"Yes, Mr. Carson," the stunned footman stammered.

"Do you suppose yourself on holiday, Andrew?"

"No, Mr. Carson," Andy replied haplessly.

"Did Mr. Dunlop let standards slip at Christmas at your previous house, Andrew?"

"No, Mr. Carson."

"I didn't think so. Would you kindly explain the absence of a sugar spoon on the trolley?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson. I must have left it in the kitchen when I was filling the sugar bowl," Andrew admitted. "Mr. Barrow caught it just as we were coming into the room. I don't think anyone noticed. It was Mr. Barrow's quick thinking that saved the day."

Mr. Barrow happened to come into the pantry at that moment.

"Well, hail the hero of the hour," Mr. Carson said sarcastically. "What a brilliant stroke of genius to exchange a teaspoon for a sugar spoon. They're practically the same thing. Why don't we just start using bouillon spoons for everything? It would certainly simplify things and I'm sure no one will ever notice."

Thomas knew better than to respond but Andrew felt the need to defend himself.

"I didn't say…" Andrew began to argue but Mr. Carson's glare stopped him in his tracks.

"Mr. Barrow might not always be there to cover for you. You need to have an eye for details in this job. I took a chance on you, Andrew. Have I made a mistake?"

"No, Mr. Carson."

"Need I remind you that your Happy Christmas depends upon the good will of your employers?"

"No, Mr. Carson."

"They expect the same service today as every other day."

"Yes, Mr. Carson."

"Then I suggest you save your 'Happy Christmas' for your own time and focus on doing your job."

"Yes, Mr. Carson."

With that, Mr. Carson exited the pantry carrying the headache cure for His Lordship on a silver tray. He regretted his words immediately. That was not how he'd planned to handle Andrew's tiny faux pas. It was hardly an infraction deserving of such a dressing down but he could not take back his words without appearing soft. Still, he knew he should say something encouraging to the lad before too much time passed. Unfortunately, Andrew and Mr. Barrow had been relieved by Mr. Molesley by the time Mr. Carson he returned the tray and glass to the pantry.

To make matters worse, Mr. Carson knew that Thomas would waste no time in telling all the staff that Mr. Carson was on a rampage. What would Mrs. Hughes think when she heard that? Would she think his mood was a related to her? Stuck upstairs, Mr. Carson could only hope that she knew his heart better than that.

He glanced at the clock. In an hour or so the children would be ready for naps and the adults would finally dress for the day. Then, he could seek her out and assure her that he was merely being a sentimental old booby.

TBC...

* * *

**AN/ Chelsie is canon on this side of the pond now! Yippee!**

**This 'Downton children on Christmas morning' interlude was largely inspired by a review from Chelsie Fan. **

**Eventually, life will settle down and I'll find time to read and review all the lovely Chelsieness that happened last month (and is still going on in many cases). I'm not desperate enough to wish to be snowed in, but I'm getting awfully close.**

**For now, please know that I value your reviews and will try to reply.**

**ETA... In Downton Downstairs code Toast equals Love.**


	17. About Last Night

Mrs. Hughes swiftly climbed the backstairs to the family rooms. Not wishing to overtax Madge on Christmas, Mrs. Hughes had decided to take Anna's place as Lady Mary's maid. Unfortunately, this meant that Mrs. Hughes would have to wait even longer to speak to Mr. Carson. She tried to put the mystery of the grumpy butler to the back of her mind as she entered Lady Mary's room.

"Ah, Mrs. Hughes. Mr. Carson mentioned that Bates was returned. He said you'd given Anna the morning off but he didn't tell me who to expect."

"I hope you don't mind, My Lady." Mrs. Hughes went directly to Lady Mary's wardrobe. She knew that Anna would have hung this week's clothes in order so it would be easy to know which dress to prepare.

"Not at all," Lady Mary said flippantly as she considered her own reflection in the dressing table looking glass. "Actually, this gives me an opportunity to discuss something with you."

"What is that, My Lady?" Mrs. Hughes couldn't think what Lady Mary might want of her. It seemed clear that there was nothing more the two women could do for Anna or Mr. Bates.

"Carson."

Mrs. Hughes froze briefly before turning towards the dressing table holding the day's dress. Lady Mary was watching her very closely. "What about Mr. Carson?" She hoped her voice sounded steady.

"I heard him barking at poor Andy this morning, which I find surprising."

"I understand that Andrew left the sugar spoon in the kitchen. You know how Mr. Carson demands perfection."

"Still, the dressing down sounded very severe for such a small infraction. Carson could have been more lenient, seeing as it is Christmas."

"You'll have to discuss that with him, My Lady," Mrs. Hughes said in what she hoped was a suitably respectful but dismissive tone.

"Carson usually enjoys Christmas. In fact, I thought he looked particularly chipper last evening." Mary's eyes never left Mrs. Hughes' face.

"The party went very well. I'm sure that pleased him and he always enjoys hearing Your Ladyship sing," Mrs. Hughes tried to flatter. The comment did catch Lady Mary's interest.

"Yes, Carson has always been one of my greatest fans," the young woman agreed. "Even when I was young and didn't like being the center of attention."

_Was she ever that young?_ Mrs. Hughes thought wryly.

"I know it's hard to believe, but I haven't always enjoyed notoriety," Lady Mary smiled as if she could hear the housekeeper's thoughts.

"I used to hate it when Grandmama would make me sing for her friends," Mary admitted. "I don't think she knew what else to do with me. She's never exactly been comfortable around children. She still looks at George as though he's a wild animal that might bite her."

Mrs. Hughes smiled appreciatively at the joke and hoped Lady Mary was done discussing Mr. Carson. She was not.

"It was Carson who taught me not to be afraid of the audience," Mary continued to speak conversationally as she approved the items Mrs. Hughes was presenting for her inspection. "I would look to him if I felt nervous and he would always have a reassuring smile for me."

Lady Mary paused as if she expected Mrs. Hughes to say something. When the older woman remained mum, Mary gave a small smirk. Mrs. Hughes randomly wondered if Lady Mary knew about Mr. Carson's years on the stage. Lady Sybil had known. Perhaps she had confided in her sisters.

"You really think my singing put him in such high spirits?"

"I know he favors that carol," Mrs. Hughes lied._ Which carol had it been? _She racked her brain to remember.

"And did _you_ enjoy my song, Mrs. Hughes?"

Alarm bells were ringing in her mind. Mrs. Hughes felt backed into a corner and reluctantly answered, "Of course, My Lady. It was quite a treat."

It was a calculated risk to embellish her lie. It was a mistake.

"But Carson didn't stay to listen, did he, Mrs. Hughes? Nor did you," Lady Mary accused.

"My Lady?" Mrs. Hughes knew she was caught.

"You don't think that I would notice when my biggest supporter is missing from the audience?"

"Perhaps you just didn't see him," Mrs. Hughes tried one last time.

"Carson is very hard to miss," Mary said with a knowing smile. "I noticed that his biggest supporter was missing as well. And when you returned together you both looked very pleased."

Mrs. Hughes cursed herself. She'd been naïve to think no one would notice the change between the heads of house. Still, she would not break Mr. Carson's confidence. This was not how they'd planned to tell the family. They hadn't even had time to discuss what they planned.

"What are you implying, My Lady?"

"Nothing improper, I assure you, Mrs. Hughes. This is Carson we're talking of," Lady Mary answered. "You don't have to tell me everything, but don't insult me by denying that something happened between yourself and Carson last night."

The room filled with a palpable silence as the two women engaged in a battle of wills. Lady Mary remained seated but Mrs. Hughes felt as though she were being stared down upon.

"I'm not sure what you want me to say, My Lady," the housekeeper finally broke the silence, admitting defeat. She had no choice but to place herself at Lady Mary's mercy. The only comfort Mrs. Hughes could find was to remind herself that Lady Mary was the only other person in the world who loved Mr. Carson half as much as herself.

"Just promise me you won't break his heart," Lady Mary said in a soft voice very unlike her usual confident tones.

Mrs. Hughes just shook her head. _Never,_ she thought.

"The sapphire earrings, I think," Lady Mary said, changing the subject as though they'd just been discussing the weather.

With Mrs. Hughes' assistance, Lady Mary was dressed for the day in a thrice.

"Will that be all, My Lady?" She had last night's frock draped over her arm.

"Yes, and I can make do with Madge until Anna returns."

She'd almost reached the door when Lady Mary spoke to her again.

"Mrs. Hughes?"

"Yes, My Lady?"

The two women locked eyes again, but it was not a fight that Mrs. Hughes saw in Lady Mary's face now; it was an entreaty.

"Please don't take him away too soon. I've only just accepted that Mr. Branson is leaving."

Mrs. Hughes had no answer to this request so she bowed slightly. With her heart beating audibly in her chest, Mrs. Hughes made her escape.

-00-

"…And another thing," Beryl continued in her litany of the many ways Mr. Carson had wronged the staff. It had started with Andrew, but now Mr. Carson was being subjected to every transgression he'd committed in twenty odd years. She stood over him as he ate silently at his desk. "Do you honestly think anyone cares if the water goblets don't match the glasses for the pudding wine?"

Mr. Carson pushed another scone into his mouth to keep from answering. He wanted very much to ask Mrs. Patmore how many times she'd yelled at his footmen because a course reached the table thirty seconds later than she'd intended. He didn't see the difference, but he trusted her expertise as a cook and took her word that the meal would be ruined otherwise. He doubted she would believe him if he explained that guests would indeed notice if the crystal pattern changed mid meal and they would make assumptions about the family based on the change. It would appear that they were just using a hodgepodge of partial sets of crystal. The guests would assume that the family could not afford the full set of crystal or that the family did not value the guests enough to use the 'good' settings. No, a cook wouldn't understand that so Mr. Carson kept his peace.

Mr. Carson told himself there was a potential upside from this dressing down. Perhaps if he took his lumps from Mrs. Patmore, Mrs. Hughes would go easier on him. He continued to eat while Mrs. Patmore continued to scold. Mr. Carson was grateful at least that Mrs. Patmore had still prepared him a hearty mid-morning meal. When he'd seen the scowls that awaited him downstairs, he wondered if he would ever be allowed to eat again.

Mrs. Hughes had already gone up to attend Lady Mary by the time Mr. Carson was freed by Lord Grantham. His Lordship had not been satisfied with Mr. Carson's simple proclamation that Mr. Bates had returned. Despite many assurances that there were no further details to be had, Lord Grantham had questioned Mr. Carson for almost a quarter hour after the ladies had returned upstairs to dress.

"To yell at a nice lad like Andy over a teaspoon on Christmas!" Mrs. Patmore was less animated than before. Her rant was finally running out of steam. She looked over Mr. Carson's shoulder. He turned to see the housekeeper standing in the doorway. "I mean, I ask you, Mrs. Hughes. Have you ever seen the like?"

"At least it was over something important," Mrs. Hughes said seriously.

Mr. Carson looked suitably abashed as he wiped his face and placed his napkin over the empty plate. With both women present, he thought it was time to attempt to explain himself even if he could not defend his actions.

"Yes, I overreacted, I admit it." His hands flew up in a gesture of futility. "I let myself get too caught up in wanting to ensure that Miss Sybbie's last Christmas at Downton is perfect."

"You thought an incorrect spoon was going to ruin a four-year-old's Christmas?" Mrs. Patmore demanded.

"Ruin is too strong a word," Mr. Carson protested. "Missing some little detail like that might mar the day. What if the Dowager were there? She would have said something and it would have put Lady Grantham on edge and children pick up on things like that."

"That excuse is flimsier than Aunt Fanny's wig," the cook persisted.

"Mrs. Patmore!" Daisy came rushing in. "The meringue won't set! I think there's oil in the bowls."

"Then wash them or get a fresh bowl and start again, you dozy girl! Do I have to do everything?" Belying her words, Mrs. Patmore followed the flustered Daisy back to the kitchen.

Left alone, Mr. Carson quickly reached out and grabbed Mrs. Hughes's hand fiercely. He stared adamantly at her. "I can't really explain why I exploded at the lad, but please be assured that it has nothing to do with us."

"The thought had crossed my mind, but I believe you," she assured him.

"Thank you," he sighed in relief.

"I must admit, when Mr. Barrow said you were in a mood this morning, I flattered myself that it was a good mood," Mrs. Hughes told him, trying to hide her confusion behind her wit.

"I assure you that I awoke this morning feeling happier than any morning of my life," Mr. Carson insisted. "Christmas or otherwise."

"Then what happened?"

"Mrs. Patmore will be back any second." He released her hand and looked towards the door. "Can we talk later?" He could not admit all of his hopes and fears to her when Mrs. Patmore's return was imminent.

"Just tell me before she comes back," Mrs. Hughes insisted.

"I'll try. I started thinking about how this was Miss Sybbie's last Christmas at Downton," Mr. Carson said quickly. "Which made me start to wonder if it were my, that is our, last Christmas here and then Lord Grantham…"

"Have you gotten the truth out of him yet?" Mrs. Patmore asked as she strode back into the room.

_I would have done if you could give us some privacy,_ Mrs. Hughes thought bitterly. What she said was, "He just woke up on the wrong side of his cave this morning."

Mrs. Patmore scowled at this non answer.

"Why Mr. Carson was such a Scrooge this morning is less important than what he is going to do to fix it," Mrs. Hughes declared.

"I'll make it up to the lad, Mrs. Patmore, I promise," the contrite butler swore.

"And what about the rest of the staff?" Mrs. Patmore demanded. "By yelling at Andy, you've put everyone on edge, Mr. Carson. On Christmas."

"I'll think of something," Mr. Carson looked to Mrs. Hughes for help.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Patmore. I've got a few ideas." Mrs. Hughes smiled at Mr. Carson in a manner that made him most uncomfortable. "You will do exactly as I say, Mr. Carson."

He nodded with a frown.

"And you will do it with a smile," she added.

Mr. Carson gave a feeble grin that was more of a grimace.

"That's worse than before," Mrs. Patmore exclaimed; a smile beginning to bloom on her face. She was looking forward to watching Mrs. Hughes put Mr. Carson through his paces.

"It will have to do, I suppose," Mrs. Hughes shrugged. Her stern façade cracked at his injured expression. "Now here's what you are going to do…"

TBC...


	18. Like Fine Wine

After receiving his instructions from Mrs. Hughes, Mr. Carson called Mr. Molesley to the butler's pantry. Mr. Molesley passed Mrs. Patmore on her way out of the pantry.

"Mr. Molesley, would you please take young Walter to the cellar and bring up the crate marked 'CC3'?"

"Which crate, Mr. Carson?" Mrs. Hughes asked from beside his desk.

"Oh, alright! 'CC2' then," Mr. Carson changed his order reluctantly.

"Did we bring up the wrong crate earlier?" Mr. Molesley asked, obviously terrified at having made a mistake. Last night they'd brought up the crate clearly marked 'Xmas'.

"No, Mr. Molesley, you brought the correct crate, but I've been reminded that we are a larger party this year and we might want more wine," Mr. Carson tried to reassure the anxious footman, even giving him a small smile. "Just bring the crate here. There are a few select bottles I thought people would enjoy today."

Mr. Molesley nodded feverishly and took off as soon as he was dismissed. It always made him nervous when Mr. Carson smiled at him like that.

"Why not bring up crate number one?" Mrs. Hughes inquired after Molesley left them alone again.

"Because that wine is intended for a very special occasion," Mr. Carson informed her. "And the staff will be drinking it soon enough."

Mrs. Hughes blushed with understanding. _'Soon'_, she thought. _He said 'soon'._

Mr. Carson smiled at the affect his words had on her. It felt good to know that he was not completely powerless today. Even if she was calling the shots, he had the ability to keep her slightly off balance. It might well be his only solace in a day which promised to be rather trying.

-00-

A subdued staff gathered in the servant's hall in preparation of going up to receive their gifts from the family, most of which had been bought and wrapped by Mrs. Hughes.

"Before we go up," Mr. Carson said solemnly. "I wanted to inform you that today's luncheon will commence immediately after the family dismiss us and you will not have to resume your duties until half past four."

A happy murmur rippled through the room. This was an additional hour and a half. Mr. Carson remembered to smile and it appeared almost genuine.

"Consider this a reward for an exemplary year of service. You have _all_ met or exceeded our expectations of excellence." Mr. Carson looked pointedly at Andrew. "Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Patmore and I are very proud of what we've accomplished together this year and we are proud of you. I hope you are as proud of yourselves."

Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore nodded their agreement.

Just as Mrs. Hughes had hoped, this praise raised the collective spirit of the household and the unpleasantness from the morning began to fade in their memories. By the time the staff returned downstairs with their presents, they were chattering happily about their gifts and the extra time off. Andy's dressing down was all but forgotten.

At luncheon, Mr. Carson himself opened the bottles and poured the first round of wine. He tried to explain that the first wine was one of His Lordship's favorite vintages and they were drinking some of the last bottles in Yorkshire, but the excited staff drowned him out.

Defeated, Mr. Carson took his place at the head of the table once all the glasses were filled. He could not help but scowl at the scene. Light pressure on his foot made him turn to the woman on his right. She gave him an exaggerated smile, reminding him what he was supposed to be doing. Mr. Carson gritted his teeth and smiled.

"You're not very convincing," she teased him.

"They're drinking the aught eight like it was Old Tom gin," he groused as two hall boys slurped at their wine heedless that they were drinking roughly three months' worth of their salary.

"But they're enjoying it, which is the point."

"They'd have enjoyed the cheaper wine just as well," Mr. Carson argued, still smiling in painful insincerity.

"Take your medicine, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Hughes said kindly. "And just keep smiling. If you relax, you might actually have a bit of fun."

Her hand briefly brushed across his hand as she reached for the platter of Brussell's sprouts. This simple touch took the last bit of fight out of him. The sooner he accepted his penance, the sooner it would be done, he reasoned.

"I'll try," he promised as she spooned some sprouts onto her plate and then some onto his.

-00-

With the extra wine and time, Christmas luncheon was leisurely and festive. The staff were quite boisterous throughout the meal, emboldened by the smiling butler at the head of the table. Thankfully, none of them looked too closely at his smile. Mr. Carson was trying valiantly to enjoy himself, but he could not keep from fixating on the under appreciated wine. He looked at every spill as though it were blood on the table. He nearly lost his composure completely when he saw one of the maids spooning sugar into her glass.

As the last of the Christmas crackers popped around the table, the briefest hint of gunpowder wafted through the air and was gone. Mrs. Hughes donned her paper crown when the flaming pudding arrived and helped Mrs. Patmore secure her own paper hat over her cap. Both women stared at Mr. Carson expectantly.

"Surely not," he scoffed.

The women's collective gaze did not falter. Mr. Carson swept the candies away from his hat and picked it up. It was a triangular sailor's hat.

_I should at least wear a crown, _he pouted to himself and looked around. All the crackers and hats were claimed. Mr. Carson opened his hat and placed in on his head as though it were a crown of thorns. In the process, he mussed his hair and several curls were pushed down onto his forehead by the silly paper hat.

At this delightful sight Mrs. Hughes gave him a sappy smile. _My God, I'm going to marry this man, _she reminded herself gleefully.

"Happy?" Mr. Carson asked sardonically. When he saw the look on Mrs. Hughes face, however, his sarcastic smile was replaced by a rakish smirk.

"Ecstatic!" Mrs. Patmore declared. "Now for the real show."

"Must I?" Mr. Carson entreated Mrs. Hughes.

She observed the staff. They were joyous and festive. Mr. Carson had made reparations. She could not force him to complete this last task if he found it too humiliating. Still, she very much wanted him to do it. She was sure it would not be as humiliating as he anticipated.

"Please," she requested gently.

If she had demanded, he might have been able to refuse her, but she'd asked so sweetly. _How can I say 'no' to her?_

Mr. Carson was resolved. He looked up the table to where Andrew was chatting with Mr. Barrow.

"Andrew," Mr. Carson said in a low voice. No one heard him. He cleared his throat loudly and called up the table in a bellowing tone, "Andrew!"

The table fell silent at once. Mrs. Hughes began to think this was a bad idea. Mr. Carson might undo all the good he'd done thus far.

"Yes, Mr. Carson?" Andy asked, valiantly keeping any tremble of fear from his voice.

"I have something I need to ask you."

"Yes, Mr. Carson?"

Mr. Carson looked down at the table in front of him. Digging once more through the candy from his cracker, the butler picked up a tiny piece of paper.

"How did the snake describe his favorite joke?" He read from the slip of paper.

No one at the table could believe what they were witnessing. Mr. Carson was going to tell a cracker joke. Somehow Andy maintained his composure well enough to answer, "I don't know, Mr. Carson. How _did _the snake describe his favorite joke?"

Mr. Carson looked at the punchline and rolled his eyes. He took a deep breath and, like a man falling on a sword, completed the joke. "Hyssssssterical."

Groans, giggles and guffaws erupted from the staff. The festive atmosphere returned and laughter filled the room. A few people patted Andy on the back as congratulations for his bravery.

"Do you think someone was actually paid to write that?" A bemused Mr. Carson asked Mrs. Hughes, who was biting her lip to keep from going into hysterics herself.

"If so, I hope they didn't pay them very much," she answered mirthfully.

Mr. Carson laughed a sincere laugh as he leaned in to ask, "Am I forgiven, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Completely, my Cheerful Charlie."

He looked around to see that no one had overheard her comment before he accused her. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

She nodded cheekily. "So will you, if you let yourself."

Beneath the table, she took his hand. Mr. Carson beamed at her lovingly. "After pudding do you suppose you could spare me a moment of your time…in private?"

Mrs. Hughes squeezed his hand and nodded. Then she startled Mr. Carson by standing suddenly. For a brief instant he thought, hoped, she was about to drag him back to her sitting room, but she dropped his hand.

"Mr. Branson!" Mrs. Hughes exclaimed.

The entire staff stood, including Mr. Carson, as Tom entered the hall holding Sybbie's hand.

"Please, I don't wish to disturb you. Sybbie and I just wanted to come down and say our goodbyes in case there isn't another chance. I knew you would all be here."

Everyone sat back down. Tom and Sybbie made their way around the table shaking hands and giving out hugs respectively. Sybbie sat on Thomas' lap for a bit and Mrs. Hughes thought she saw the under butler wipe at his eyes as the little girl left him.

When they had made their way completely around the table, Mr. Carson pulled a spare chair from the corner and set it up between his place and Mrs. Hughes'. Tom sat down and turned to Mrs. Hughes.

"Things are likely to be hectic in the next week and I wanted to have some time to properly thank you for everything you've done for me."

As her father spoke to Mrs. Hughes, an exhausted Sybbie stood beside Mr. Carson's chair looking up at him curiously. It was as though she wasn't sure she recognized him. Realizing that he still had the hat on his head and probably looked very silly, Mr. Carson took it off and set it on the table. At this, Sybbie smiled and surprised the butler by crawling up into his lap. She nestled into his arms sleepily. Mr. Carson knew that she'd fall asleep immediately unless he distracted her.

"Have you had a good Christmas, Miss Sybbie?"

"Mmhmm," she hummed before yawning dramatically.

"You must be very tired," Mr. Carson said sympathetically. "You've been up since very early this morning."

"But I still missed seeing Father Christmas," she pouted.

"Just."

"We're going to Boston," she informed him seemingly out of the blue.

"Yes, so I've heard."

"Carson, will Father Christmas be able to find me next Christmas?"

"Of course," Mr. Carson said with conviction. "In fact, I told him this morning that you would be in Boston next year, but I think you should write to him, just in case."

"Do you know anything about Boston?"

"I only know that they make their tea with salt water," he answered.

"Yuck!" Sybbie made a face at the very idea.

"Just the once," Tom assured his daughter, giving Mr. Carson a small frown.

"Will you come visit us?" Sybbie wanted to know. "Thomas says he'll come with Donk."

"Does he now?" Mr. Carson wasn't sure he liked Barrow's assumption, but he wasn't about to argue with the child.

"He's been to New York. Have you?"

"I've never been to America, nor am I likely to," Mr. Carson told her honestly. "A butler stays with his house, but I shall be here when you want to come back and visit us."

"I'd like that," Sybbie nodded.

"You must be very excited about Boston," Mr. Carson urged.

Sybbie shrugged. "Thomas says I'll make lots of new friends in 'Merica." The child sounded dubious.

"I'm sure you shall, Miss Sybbie."

"Nanny says old friends are best." Sybbie's eyelids were growing heavy.

Mr. Carson saw it was fruitless to try and keep her awake so he rocked her slightly as he answered in a low, soothing, almost hypnotic voice, "Nanny is right; old friends are the best friends, but they can't become old friends without being new friends first."

Amid the hubbub and noise of the servant's Christmas luncheon, Sybbie drifted off to sleep in Mr. Carson's arms. The old butler smiled down on her with a lump in his throat. He raised his head to see Mr. Branson and Mrs. Hughes watching him.

They had been watching him for some time. Tom observed how easily Sybbie melted into the butler's arms. She looked safe and confident there. Tom thought of Sybil's stories of the gentle giant who had watched over her childhood.

Tom was convinced that going to America was the right thing for him and for Sybbie. He knew saying goodbye would be hard, but he had not fully realized how difficult it would be for the people they were leaving behind.

Tom's relationship with Mr. Carson had been a rocky one to say the least. Mr. Carson had never fully accepted Tom's ascendance, but they had reached a balance. As patriarch of the downstairs, Mr. Carson's acceptance was important to Tom, second only perhaps to that of Lord Grantham himself.

After his experience with Stowell, Tom understood how much Mr. Carson had eventually gone out of his way to treat Tom as one of the family. It was Tom's attempt to be part of two worlds that Mr. Carson had trouble accepting. He could relate to Tom as one of the family or as one of the staff but he had difficulty doing so simultaneously.

"It's not too late to change your mind," Mr. Carson said, only half joking.

"Don't you start. I'm having enough trouble with Lord Grantham and Mary," Tom teased, trying to conceal the unexpected emotions rising in him.

"Looks like she's ready to be taken back upstairs," Mrs. Hughes urged. "Thank you for bringing her down. I'm sure everyone appreciated the opportunity to say goodbye."

Mr. Branson and Mr. Carson stood. Mr. Carson handed Mr. Branson his sleeping daughter.

"I wish you both the best of luck in America," Mr. Carson said coolly.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson," Tom smiled back. He shifted Sybbie so he could extend his right hand to the butler. Mr. Carson considered for a moment before he took the younger man's hand and shook it solemnly.

After Mr. Branson left with Miss Sybbie, Mr. Carson sat down to his pudding in silence. Mrs. Patmore updated Mrs. Hughes on her latest trials with the Kelvinator but the housekeeper was ever mindful of the pensive man to her left. His encounter with Miss Sybbie had obviously affected him deeply. Maybe his actions this morning really were about his sadness about seeing Miss Sybbie leave.

"I'll be in my office," Mr. Carson announced as he stood suddenly. When the staff started to stand as well, he waved them back down. "Carry on, everyone. And Mr. Barrow, I will oversee the family's tea."

With that curt announcement, Mr. Carson was gone. Mrs. Hughes barely heard the end of Mrs. Patmore's story as her thoughts followed him into the butler's pantry. She was about to follow when Mrs. Patmore let out a happy squeak.

"Mr. Bates!"

Sure enough, Mr. Bates and Anna stood in the entrance to the servant's hall. As happy as Mrs. Hughes was to see the reunited couple, their timing could not have been worse. Mrs. Hughes wanted desperately to speak to Mr. Carson, but she would be expected to stay and greet the prodigal son. If she left, people would notice and she could not be obvious about going to Mr. Carson.

"Welcome back, Mr. Bates," Mrs. Hughes said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. Forced to delay comforting Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes tried to focus on Anna's happiness for the time being. By the time things calmed down in the servant's hall, Mr. Carson had already gone upstairs to serve the family their afternoon tea. When the staff dispersed to enjoy one last hour of freedom, Mrs. Hughes retired to her sitting room with one last glass of wine.

TBC…

* * *

**AN/ I'm sure you were expecting something more extreme as a punishment, but I think watching the staff drink his good wine was pretty bad. He couldn't apologize directly to Andy, but he could make it clear that there were no hard feelings. Someone suggested that Carson actually juggle for the staff, but I don't think he would do that, no matter how much trouble he was in.**

**I tried to research when they started putting those terrible jokes in Christmas crackers and couldn't find a date. [though I did find some pretty terrible jokes]**

**Next update they will FINALLY get to have a proper talk about their future.**


	19. Alone at Last

Mrs. Hughes was too restless to wait for Mr. Carson to return from serving the family tea in her own sitting room. After a few fruitless minutes at her desk trying to reconcile the latest batch of receipts, she gave up and went to the kitchen in hopes that Mrs. Patmore would prove a distraction. The cook, however, was in no mood to entertain having found two of her kitchen maids sleeping off the afternoon's libations at the servant's table.

"It will be a miracle if I get anything useful out of them for the rest of the day," Mrs. Patmore groused.

"Most of the work is done already," Mrs. Hughes comforted. "I can lend you a girl if you need it."

"No thank you. She'd be more trouble than help."

"Perhaps a pot of coffee then?" Mrs. Hughes suggested.

"If they can stay awake long enough to drink any, that might work," Mrs. Patmore agreed. "Daisy! Let's start a pot of coffee and see if we can revive these sleeping beauties."

"Will you have time to exchange gifts before dinner?" Mrs. Hughes asked as Daisy scampered off.

"I should have a lull right around half six."

"Very good. I'll let Mr. Carson know."

"About Mr. Carson," Mrs. Patmore dropped her voice. "Do you think we were a little hard on him earlier?"

"Sharing his wine was more traumatic than I'd expected," Mrs. Hughes admitted. "But don't you worry about Mr. Carson, he'll be fine."

Mrs. Patmore shrugged as if she weren't convinced any more than Mrs. Hughes by the housekeeper's assertion. Mrs. Hughes gave her friend a wan smile and walked through to the servant's hall. The two kitchen maids weren't the only staff lounging at the table nursing the beginnings of headaches. This development would not improve Mr. Carson's mood. Gently, Mrs. Hughes urged the ailing maids and hall boys to drink a headache powder and lie down in their rooms.

"It won't do to let Mr. Carson see you laying about," she warned.

Ultimately, Mrs. Hughes settled into a chair beside the hearth in Mr. Carson's pantry. This way she would be certain of seeing him as soon as he was done serving tea. She stared into the little coal grate and mused on the past twenty four hours. She still felt a thrill when she remembered that she was engaged to marry her dear butler, but the reality of their lives had dampened that feeling. He loved her as she loved him. Her world would never be the same, but her dreams of the night before were struggling to survive in the cold light of day.

There were many things Mrs. Hughes would miss about the house and staff, but she could happily walk out the door this instant and never look back if he were with her. It was clear that Mr. Carson would have a much harder time letting go of Downton. Her assumption that they would marry soon might well prove to be a pipe dream. She needed to prepare herself for that possibility.

Mrs. Hughes thought about her conversation with Lady Mary earlier. How casually the girl, for so Mrs. Hughes would always consider her, had thrown an impediment into the path to happy matrimony for the heads of staff. Mrs. Hughes wondered if she should tell Mr. Carson what Lady Mary had said. It would influence him, she had no doubt. Even Mr. Branson had mentioned how Mary had delayed his own leaving with her constant pressure to stay.

Anger rose up in Mrs. Hughes' breast.

_How dare that minx tell me not to break Mr. Carson's heart? That's rich, coming from a woman who treats men like her personal play things, _Mrs. Hughes fumed. _ And if anyone has broken Mr. Carson's heart since Alice, it's been her. She never considered for a moment how he agonized over going to Haxby._

Mrs. Hughes had sat in this very chair as Mr. Carson told her he would regret leaving Downton every moment of every day. Would he still feel that way leaving? He'd been willing to leave for Lady Mary. _Will he be willing to leave for me? _She believed he would, but would she be selfish enough to ask him to?

_'And don't take him away too soon!' What did she mean by that? How long does Mary expect him to stand by to prop up her inflated sense of importance? _

While struggling with these thoughts, Mrs. Hughes heard an unmistakable baritone in the kitchen. She held her breath as his steps led away from his office door and towards hers. She waited patiently until he finally returned to his office.

"There you are," Mr. Carson smiled as he opened the door to find her beside his fire. "Mrs. Patmore says we're to exchange gifts at half six."

"So I've been told."

"I was worried when you weren't in your office." He shut the door behind him, resisting the urge to lock it. It would never do for Mrs. Patmore to find the door locked twice in so short a time. She would begin to suspect something.

"Worried?"

"I was hoping we could catch a few moments together," he clarified. "It feels as though we've hardly seen each other." He sat down in the chair opposite her. The chairs were close enough that their knees almost touched.

"We spent all of luncheon together," she reminded him, though she understood what he was saying.

"It's not the same," he insisted and held a hand out to her.

"No, it's not," she agreed and took his hand.

"Happy Christmas, Mrs. Hughes," he smiled wearily.

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Carson," she returned. His hand was warm and soft in hers. They sat silently for a short time, just enjoying being alone together. Mrs. Hughes broke the easy silence. "I wanted to say that I am sorry for suggesting you share your good wine with the staff."

"That was a suggestion? I'd hate to see a command," he quipped.

"Yes, well," she blushed at his teasing. "I wanted you to see that people enjoying Christmas was more important than a sugar spoon. The lad was chatting with Daisy and left it in the kitchen. These things will happen on Christmas morning."

"Chatting with Daisy?" Mr. Carson asked in disbelief. "Are we going to have to go through that sort of thing again?"

"It's nothing like the business with Alfred, don't worry," she assured him. "Any way, I want you to know that I really did think they would appreciate the gesture more."

"I'm not sure if they appreciated the wine, but they certainly drank enough of it."

"I know that wasn't easy for you to watch. Please believe that I didn't realize how bad it would be for you," she admitted. Her thumb stroked soothingly over his knuckles.

"Did you see…?" He couldn't even finish the sentence but gestured as if he were stirring tea.

"The sugar? Yes. I'm so very sorry you had to go through that, but I have some news that I hope will cheer you up," she said hopefully.

"I saw. Mr. Bates is back. Wonderful." Mr. Carson did not sound very enthusiastic.

"That isn't my news," Mrs. Hughes corrected him. "The truth is…the three bottles of the aught eight you opened were the only wines we took from your special crate. All the other wine was what you'd previously set aside specifically for Christmas."

"They didn't drink it all?" Mr. Carson sat up at this happy information.

"I wouldn't let them do that even if I thought they would notice the difference but it was necessary for you to think it for a time," Mrs. Hughes told him. It did her heart good to see how he cheered at her confession. "In fact, half of the third bottle is secured in my sitting room for us to enjoy this evening at our leisure."

Mr. Carson took her hand in both of his and leaned happily towards her. "Mrs. Hughes, I will never question you again."

"If only I could believe that," she kidded him.

"I shall have to remember that you are as wise as you are beautiful," he gushed.

Her face flushed furiously red at this blatant compliment. She stammered for a reply but had to settle for staring shyly at her own feet.

Mr. Carson found her sudden shyness endearing. "Have I embarrassed you? Surely I've told you before…"

"No. Never," she whispered.

"Are you sure I haven't slipped up even once? I think it every day, so it would be remarkable if I haven't told you accidentally."

"I definitely would have remembered that," she said, regaining her composure.

"Well you are beautiful and now that I am free to say so, you had best become accustomed to hearing it," he informed her.

"Get away with you," she said with a small, enchanting giggle.

"I won't go away, Mrs. Hughes," he said very seriously, though his eyes were twinkling with promised mischief. "The flip side of me being stuck with you is that you are stuck with me."

"Oh dear, I clearly didn't think this through," she responded in a mock serious tone to match his.

"It's too late to back out now. We have a verbal contract."

"I should hate for you to sue me for breach of contract."

"And I would," he joked.

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Carson. I'm sure we can negotiate something between ourselves," she said suggestively.

"I hope so," Mr. Carson rejoined. "Mr. Murray is busy enough as it is."

They held hands and laughed for a bit, enjoying the miraculously uninterrupted moment.

"It's good to see you back in the Christmas spirit," Mrs. Hughes sighed as she watched him laughing quietly. "I don't wish to press, but can you tell me what really upset you this morning? It wasn't a spoon and it wasn't just Miss Sybbie."

"His Lordship was miserable this morning," Mr. Carson began.

"Not surprising considering how much he drank last night," Mrs. Hughes interjected.

"He was more than a little depressed about Miss Sybbie leaving. And who can blame him?"

"America will be good for Mr. Branson and for Sybbie," Mrs. Hughes argued.

"She's going to grow up as a middle class Irish American when she could have been an English debutante," Mr. Carson frowned. "She'll be surrounded by displaced Irish who hate the English even more than the Americans. She'll be taught that her mother's family are tyrants or, at best, snobs."

Mrs. Hughes couldn't argue with that. She didn't want to point out that perhaps being raised as a spoiled rich girl wasn't what was best for Sybbie. She would have a hard time making Mr. Carson see the wisdom in that.

"When she does come back, she'll look at all of this and find it repulsive and ridiculous. The worst thing of all is that she won't understand who her mother was. She won't respect how her mother was raised."

"I'm sure Mr. Branson won't let that happen," Mrs. Hughes tried to comfort him.

"He may try, but he'll fail. He doesn't understand who Sybil was, not completely. He can't tell Sybbie about her mother's childhood. Which were her favorite songs and books. What games she played and where she liked to hide in the garden. He's taking her away from that connection to Lady Sybil. How can Miss Sybbie understand Lady Sybil without knowing Downton?"

"I don't have an answer for that, but I do know that Mr. Branson will do his best to remind Sybbie of her mother's roots," Mrs. Hughes reasoned. "And I'm sure the family will travel to visit them often."

Mr. Carson nodded, trying to accept her logical answers but he wasn't convinced. What objections could Mr. Branson have against raising his daughter at Downton? Mr. Carson was surprised by the strength of his own reaction. He thought he'd made peace with Miss Sybbie leaving, but he had only done so by denying that it would ever happen.

"Regardless of what any of us think, they are going and His Lordship was low thinking of this as Miss Sybbie's last Christmas at Downton. He and I were in the library and he said something to the effect that it was a comfort to him to know that I would never desert him."

_Just as self-centered as his daughter,_ Mrs. Hughes thought bitterly. Only someone that clueless would characterize retiring after thirty years of service as desertion. The only thing she trusted herself to say was, "Humph."

"I knew he didn't mean that literally," Mr. Carson continued, noting her response. "I told myself that the family will adjust to a new butler so long as standards don't slip. Then I remembered the teaspoon and Andrew was so obliviously chipper…"

"You lit into him as if he'd just spilled hot soup in the Dowager Countess' lap."

"As you say," Mr. Carson finished in a dejected tone.

"I know you won't want to hear this, Mr. Carson, but when we leave Downton, there will be changes to the level of service. Standards will slip. It is inevitable. Mr. Barrow is competent, but he doesn't care about the details the same way you and I do. The staff size will continue to dwindle. As I said before Lady Rose's wedding; 'The big parade has passed by.'"

"If you're trying to make me feel better, you're not succeeding." He released her hand an leaned back in his chair.

"I do want to comfort you and make you feel better, but I won't lie to you," Mrs. Hughes said kindly. "We've had a good run here at Downton, Mr. Carson, and make no mistake."

He gave a reluctant grunt in reply before she continued.

"We've thrown our share of shindigs and a few parties that would have astounded the Prince Regent himself, but that time is fading. We can either let it pass or we can hold on and go down with the ship."

"I suppose you're right. Our best days are behind us," Mr. Carson sighed dejectedly.

"I didn't say that at all, Mr. Carson," she contradicted. "I said _Downton's_ best days are behind us. I think _our_ best days are still to come."

She placed her hand gently on his knee and smiled warmly when he looked up at her.

"And I look forward to discussing that with you this evening over a glass of aught eight, Mr. Carson," she added suggestively.

Mr. Carson's face lit up brighter than the Christmas tree upstairs. He wanted to hold her hand, but he didn't want her to remove it from his leg so he settled on covering her hand with his.

"I look forward to that as well, Mrs. Hughes," he beamed. He became minutely aware of everything in the room; the heat radiating from the fire, the ticking of the clock, the blush of her cheeks, and the smell of old ledgers and fresh ink. Above all of that, he was aware of her full, red lips as she impulsively licked them. Charles knew he was in danger of acting in an improper manner.

_Where's Molesley when you need him?_ He thought in a panic. _Or Mrs. Patmore? Anna? Daisy?_ _Anyone?_

Elsie saw his eyes focused on her lips. Her hand slid slightly up his leg as she leaned towards him. He wasn't leaning towards her, but he wasn't leaning away.

_'It's alright,'_ her smile said.

Charles swallowed his nerves and licked his lips. "Mm," he grunted, trying to form words.

"What's that, Mr. Carson?" Her voice was a Scottish purr as she leaned closer.

"Mm-Mr. Molesley," he croaked.

Mrs. Hughes sat up quickly and looked towards the doors, which were both closed. She looked at the high window into the hallway but saw nothing. Thoroughly confused she looked back at Mr. Carson who, to her dismay, was rising from his chair and heading for the door.

"What about Mr. Molesley?" She asked exasperated.

"I need to talk to him about the second, when the family are at Canningford Grange," Mr. Carson said curtly, trying to be professional again. These transitions from butler to man and back again were beginning to put a strain on him. He wasn't sure how much longer he could do it. Nor was he sure how much longer he _wanted_ to do it.

"What about the second?"

Mrs. Hughes knew all about the dinner party Lord and Lady Sinderby were throwing for Atticus and Lady Rose. Even though Canningford Grange was close enough for the family to return to Downton after the party, the family would be staying overnight. Mrs. Hughes suspected this was due to Lady Grantham's kindness rather than her preference. Both of Rose's parents were coming up from London and Lady Grantham would be mindful of leaving Lady Sinderby and Lady Rose to deal with that situation without help.

"As you know, Lady Mary and Lady Edith won't be traveling with a maid. Now that Mr. Bates is back, His Lordship mentioned to Mr. Barrow that perhaps Bates would not want to serve as valet on the night away. Mr. Barrow would be next in line to valet for His Lordship, but he claims that he had a run in with Mr. Stowell at Brancaster and would be happy to defer to Mr. Molesley."

It did not escape Mrs. Hughes' notice that this would set Miss Baxter and Mr. Molesley up for a potentially enjoyable outing together. She further suspected that Mr. Barrow was trying to do a favor for Miss Baxter, but she was too frustrated with Mr. Carson at the moment to comment.

"And you need to talk to him _right now_?" She challenged, heat rising in her voice.

"I wanted to know Mr. Molesley's view before discussing the matter further with His Lordship." Mr. Carson knew he had upset her. He knew she wanted him to kiss her, but it was up to him to protect her reputation even if she didn't want it protected. They were too vulnerable here. Anyone could walk in. The thought gave him an idea.

"I was hoping we might take the day off together and avail ourselves of the opportunity to visit our house while the family are away," he suggested as a peace offering. It worked somewhat. Her temper cooled as she considered.

_Our house. How fine that sounds,_ she thought to herself. "I suppose I could get away then."

"Excellent. I'll change the rotas right now," Mr. Carson said jovially and scampered out the nearest door.

She watched him go with a small shake of her head and a grin. _You can't run from me forever, Charles Carson,_ Elsie thought. _Especially not when I have you all to myself for a whole day. _

TBC…

* * *

**AN/ They still haven't discussed the how and when of getting married, but I think they'll tackle that over the aught eight tonight. **


	20. Gift Exchange

At precisely half six, Mrs. Patmore handed the reins of the kitchen over to Daisy and carried a generously laden tea tray into Mrs. Hughes' sitting room. The butler's pantry was larger, but the senior staff all preferred the cozier confines of the housekeeper's domain. Also, Mrs. Hughes decorated her room for the season whereas Mr. Carson did not.

Mrs. Patmore was particularly looking forward to the gift exchange this year. She'd noticed the slightly strained interactions between her two friends since discovering that Mrs. Hughes had decided not to invest in a house with Mr. Carson. She thought she understood the source of the tension. She suspected that Mrs. Hughes wanted to be part of Mr. Carson's retirement plans but as something more than merely a fellow investor.

Mrs. Patmore suspected that Mrs. Hughes had withdrawn from the endeavor because it had become clear that it was only to be a business arrangement as far as Mr. Carson was concerned. Mrs. Patmore assumed that Mr. Carson also wanted something more than a business relationship but was too stubborn to admit it. There had always been a special connection between the butler and housekeeper. It wouldn't take much for their deep friendship to become something more. The cook she hoped that her gifts might give Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes the nudge they needed.

"Is it that time already?" Mrs. Hughes turned cheerfully away from her desk. The table beside the door was already cleared in anticipation of the tea.

"I have forty minutes until I have to be back in the kitchen to oversee the last of dinner preparations," Mrs. Patmore. "Shall I fetch himself?"

"There is no need, Mrs. Patmore," Mr. Carson said as he appeared behind her in the doorway. His warm smile showed that he was not harboring any hard feelings over his punishment. Mrs. Hughes certainly had smoothed that over as promised. This only strengthened Mrs. Patmore's suspicions about the special relationship between her friends.

He carried two neatly wrapped packages, one of which was clearly a book and the other clearly a bottle of wine. Everyone knew the book was meant for Mrs. Hughes while the wine would be Mrs. Patmore's. Mrs. Patmore wasn't entirely sure why he bothered to wrap something when it failed to conceal the identity of the contents, but he was not one to eschew tradition.

Chairs were drawn up to the table. Mrs. Hughes retained her position of power in that silly swivel chair of hers. Mrs. Patmore opted for a steadier perch in the chair on the far side of the table while Mr. Carson settled comfortably in His Chair beside the door.

"I'm glad to see you in a better mood," Mrs. Patmore said as she gave Mr. Carson a kindly glare.

"I am very sorry for any inconvenience I caused either of you," Mr. Carson apologized as he prepared the cups for Mrs. Hughes to pour. "I have no excuse for my behavior. The staff are very fortunate to have the two of you looking out for them."

He gave Mrs. Hughes a look of pure admiration. It lasted less than a second, but both women saw it clearly. Mrs. Hughes fumbled with the tea pot slightly but showed no other sign of embarrassment.

_If these two aren't in love with each other, I'll serve the Family my hat for Christmas dinner,_ Mrs. Patmore thought.

In short order everyone had their tea prepared exactly to their liking. The tradition between the friends was for Mr. Carson to present his gifts first, then Mrs. Patmore and then Mrs. Hughes. None of them could really say why this was beyond that it was how they'd done it their first year together.

"Happy Christmas, ladies," Mr. Carson proclaimed as he handed Mrs. Patmore her wrapped wine and Mrs. Hughes her wrapped book.

"Taylor's thirty year old Tawny? Oh, thank you, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Patmore said as she ripped the paper away unceremoniously. "What's the special occasion?" Mrs. Patmore knew that family's preferred Port was Taylor's twenty year old or Vintage Ports, so Mr. Carson had made a special effort to procure this expensive bottle for her.

"This has been quite an eventful year, Mrs. Patmore and I thought you deserved something special," Mr. Carson replied. He seemed a little embarrassed at having to explain his generosity. "It's to commemorate your new house, as well."

"Thank you, I look forward to trying this very soon," she nodded at him.

"Oh, Maugham's new book, thank you, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Hughes said as she opened her gift. "I've been looking forward to reading this."

Something in her tone caught his attention. "You knew," he said, crestfallen.

"I suspected," Mrs. Hughes admitted. "I almost bought it when I was last in Thirsk, but Mrs. Lewis put me off it. She was none too gentle about it either. I ended up with a mystery novel instead."

"'The Man in the Brown Suit'?" he guessed, remembering the book he had almost bought her.

"Yes, how did you know?"

"Never mind," Mr. Carson chuckled. At least his choices proved that he knew her tastes. "Mrs. Lewis means well."

"My turn!" Mrs. Patmore insisted, handing her friends their gifts.

Mr. Carson was confused to receive a package that looked like a book. Mrs. Patmore usually gave him a tin of his favorite biscuits or, for special years, his own pie. "'Romantic Poems of the 17th Century'," he read in astonishment. She'd given him a book of poetry? Romantic poetry? "Uh, thank you, I look forward to reading these."

"The fellow at the bookstall in London recommended it," Mrs. Patmore beamed. In fact, he'd recommended one very particular poem, which Mrs. Patmore had marked for her friend. "With your love of history and such, I thought you'd like an old book, but you need more poetry in your life, Mr. Carson."

"Well, I can't argue with that, Mrs. Patmore. Thank you," he thanked her sincerely.

"Especially page thirty-two," Mrs. Patmore said meaningfully.

Mr. Carson flipped to the page and saw the poem. He didn't blush as she had hoped, but he did shut the book quickly without comment.

"And what have you received, Mrs. Hughes?" He looked to Mrs. Hughes, expecting her to show her gift from Mrs. Patmore. Mrs. Hughes was holding her present, still half wrapped. She seemed flustered and it took her a moment to realize that Mr. Carson and Mrs. Patmore were waiting for her.

"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore," Mrs. Hughes said shortly. "It's very nice." She began rewrapping the gift and made to set it aside.

"What is it?" Mr. Carson could not help but ask.

"Go on, show him," Mrs. Patmore pushed. "You'll want to smell, Mr. Carson."

"Smell?" The bemused butler asked.

"She's bought me very elegant, scented talc," Mrs. Hughes explained quietly. Mr. Carson understood at once and began to blush.

"Perfumed body powder!" Mrs. Patmore supplied unnecessarily. She watched Mr. Carson's reaction with keen interest. "I know you don't usually go in for the perfumed stuff, Mrs. Hughes, but this is very delicate. I found it at Harrods and thought you deserved something nice."

"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore," Mrs. Hughes repeated, unsure of what to do.

"But I want to know what Mr. Carson thinks of the fragrance," Mrs. Patmore pushed.

"That's alright, Mrs. Patmore, I don't need to smell the powder. A man's opinion wouldn't be of much use in a matter such as this," Mr. Carson deflected.

"Women only bother with matters such as these because of the opinions of men," Mrs. Patmore retorted.

"A woman can do something nice just for herself," Mrs. Hughes interjected defensively but unconvincingly.

"As you say," Mrs. Patmore gave up. Watching the two of them she realized that she didn't need to push. She suspected the stodgy butler would smell Mrs. Hughes' new body powder soon enough.

"This is a very special treat, Mrs. Patmore, that I would not have bought for myself. Thank you," Mrs. Hughes spoke with finality.

That put an end to that line of conversation. Setting aside her body powder, Mrs. Hughes opened the top drawer of her desk and retrieved two identical packages and handed them to her friends. Trying to recapture a friendlier mood, Mr. Carson shook his gift and held it up to his ear.

"Hmmm….I've got it. It's a book!"

Both women laughed at his ridiculous guess. To be fair, Mrs. Hughes had bought him a book most Christmases.

"Not this year, Mr. Carson. This is a special year for my two best friends."

Mrs. Patmore and Mr. Carson opened their gifts at the same time. Mrs. Patmore began to laugh at once.

"Is this what I think it is?" The cook held up a small brass key ring with a heavy iron key on it. There were scorch marks on the shaft and the bow was slightly bent. This key had been contested by more cooks and housekeepers than Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes.

"Yes, but that is the _old _cupboard key. You still can't have the current one," Mrs. Hughes confirmed firmly. "Do you recognize your key, Mr. Carson?"

"I should think I would recognize Downton's old skeleton key," he said, smiling down at the impressively heavy key in his hand. It was not ornate, but it was solid and ancient. He held it up, unsure of how to express his gratitude for her consideration, yet decline to accept something that was not hers to give.

"Before you bluster about not being able to accept it, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Hughes jumped into his thoughts. "Lady Grantham gave me permission. She asked me to clear out some attic space to store some things for Mr. Branson. When I came across the box of keys and locks, I couldn't resist. I asked her for these two keys and she gladly agreed. I added the brass rings so you could put your new key on an old key."

"That was very thoughtful, Mrs. Hughes, thank you," Mr. Carson accepted her explanation without protest. He allowed himself to consider the key more closely. He saw the bow of the key, worn thin in spots from use. This was not the engraved, rarely used key kept upstairs for use by the family. This was the very key that Mr. Carson and half a dozen butlers before him had carried through the Abbey's halls. He recognized the scratches on the shaft of the key. With this key, Mr. Carson had locked up the front and back doors of Downton for over a decade. This simple key had once given its guardian access to the wine cellar, the silver cabinet and the women's corridor.

When the abbey had been opened to the military during the war, the warded lock system was not deemed secure enough. Any lock that could be opened with the skeleton key had been changed. It meant more work for Mr. Carson, keeping track of the numerous new keys, but the extra security was worth it. Much of the old hardware and keys had been donated to the war effort and melted down, but some of the locks must have found their way into the attics.

Mr. Carson was deeply moved. Using this old key as a key ring for his new key tied his two lives together in with an elegance only Elsie Hughes could achieve. He smiled and looked up at her. "Did you find a suitable key for yourself?" He asked without thinking.

Mrs. Patmore sat up like a shot. "Why would she need a key ring?"

Mr. Carson found himself paralyzed. Thankfully, Mrs. Hughes did not have the same problem.

"Oh, I've been meaning to tell you, Mrs. Patmore; I've recently decided that I can afford to invest with Mr. Carson after all. He's been good enough to agree to add me to the deed."

"Really?" Mrs. Patmore asked skeptically and turned to Mr. Carson.

He nodded and smiled for a few seconds before he was able to speak. "Yes, it's most fortuitous. This way I can afford to make more improvements on the house than I'd thought."

Something was going on here. They were not telling her the full truth. Mrs. Patmore was not going to rest until she had an answer. "How did you convince her, Mr. Carson?"

"I didn't," he shrugged, watching Mrs. Hughes the whole time as if waiting for a signal.

"Then what changed your mind, Mrs. Hughes?"

"I heard you talking about all the updates you were planning for your home and I was jealous. I looked at my financials again. With the new pay rise, I felt I could make it work."

Mrs. Patmore didn't believe Mrs. Hughes for one second. She still believed the only thing that would convince Mrs. Hughes to join Mr. Carson's retirement venture was a proper proposal.

_Fine, don't tell me the truth,_ she thought. Then she had a lovely idea of how she could punish her friends for lying to her and maybe drive them to confide in her. _You'll have to tell me eventually._

"Oh, this will be so much fun, Mrs. Hughes!" Mrs. Patmore exclaimed so abruptly it caused Mr. Carson to jump in his seat. "I have ever so many notes and books and articles on house renovations. I'd be happy to share them with you. Why don't I come by after dinner tonight and we can start planning. When is your next half day? I was going to go to my house when the family are at Canningford Grange. We could make a day of it and visit both houses!"

The look of terror on the faces of Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes almost made Mrs. Patmore take pity on them but then she remembered that they were lying to her and her resolve strengthened. She was hurt to think that they would not trust her with the truth.

"I don't think…" Mrs. Hughes began, but she was spared from inventing an excuse when there was a huge crash in the kitchen.

Mrs. Patmore jumped up and ran to the door. When she opened it, they could all clearly hear Daisy scolding whichever poor kitchen maid had caused the commotion.

"For the love of all that is holy!" Daisy exclaimed in a tone that was remarkably Patmorish. "I swear, when they were handing out common sense, you must have taken a half portion."

The three heads of staff had to laugh at this. Mrs. Patmore nodded proudly as Daisy continued.

"Why are _you _laughing, Paula? Sometimes I think you must have skipped the line entirely. Calm and deliberate is how we do things in this kitchen. When we rush, this is what happens. "Now don't blubber, girls," Daisy said in a kinder voice. "Get another bowl and let's start again. There's plenty of time until dinner to fix this."

"You've taught her well," Mrs. Hughes observed.

"A chip off the old block, eh?" Mrs. Patmore beamed. "Still, I'd best go see what the damage is."

She gathered up the tea and headed out the door with the now much lighter tray. Mr. Carson stood as she did so.

"Happy Christmas," Mr. Carson said, relieved to have temporarily escaped from the cook's exuberant and inconvenient offers of help.

"Page thirty-two, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Patmore called back over her shoulder and disappeared.

"What's on page thirty-two?" Mrs. Hughes asked.

"I'll tell you later," he promised with a slight blush. He sat back down, moving to the chair closer to Mrs. Hughes.

"You're not likely to get a chance," Mrs. Hughes frowned. "I think Mrs. Patmore is bent on claiming every free moment of my time."

"I'll wait up for you tonight," Mr. Carson said reasonably. "You know she turns into a pumpkin by eleven."

"And what about _our_ visit to _our_ house?"

"We'll shake her off before the second rolls 'round," he said reassuringly. "If I have to sabotage New Year's dinner."

Mrs. Hughes was less than convinced, but now wasn't the time to worry about it_._ "If worst comes to worst, I'll just lock Mrs. Patmore in the storeroom," Mrs. Hughes declared. The two heads of staff laughed, but Mr. Carson wasn't entirely certain that Mrs. Hughes was kidding.

"Thank you for my gift, it was very thoughtful," Mr. Carson said with a smile.

"You're very welcome," Mrs. Hughes answered. "And to answer your disastrous question; no, I did not find a suitable key for myself."

"I feel badly that my gift wasn't so thoughtful. Perhaps you'll let me find something for your key ring?"

"Nonsense, Mr. Carson," she insisted with a loving grin. "You don't have to buy me a key ring; you bought me a _house._"

Before he could respond there was a knocking at the open doorway. A meek looking Andrew stood frowning there. "Mr. Carson?"

"Yes, Andrew?" Mr. Carson put a good deal of effort into sounding cheery.

"Um, I'm sorry to disturb you, but Mr. Barrow asked me to come down and ask if you were ready to review the settings. He and Mr. Molesley are having a disagreement over the candelabras."

"Of course they are," Mr. Carson sighed. "Thank you, Andrew. You may tell Mr. Barrow that I shall be up shortly but that I expect the candelabra situation to be resolved before I arrive."

"Yes, Mr. Carson!" Andrew almost saluted before dashing up the stairs.

"I suppose I should go."

Mrs. Hughes gave him a knowing but regretful smile when he rose to leave. She stood also. "Happy Christmas, Mr. Carson."

To her surprise, he took her hand, bowed over it, and gave it a quick kiss.

"Yes, I'm sure it will be," he chuckled. "Eventually."

TBC…

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**AN/ Sorry for the long delay for this chapter, but tag team illnesses made their rounds through the house this past week. Everyone is much better now. Reviews would make me feel better yet;)**


	21. To Her Coy Mister

**AN/ Here's a long one to get you through the weekend (that's what he said). Sorry, I'm a little punchy;)  
**

* * *

It was well after eleven that evening and Mrs. Patmore's enthusiasm for water closet fixtures showed no signs of waning. The pot of coffee she'd brought with her to Mrs. Hughes' sitting room was fueling her uncharacteristic nocturnal energy.

Mrs. Hughes had long since begun to suspect that Mrs. Patmore had guessed the truth about Mr. Carson and herself. Mr. Carson had stuck his head into the office a few times and been turned away by Mrs. Patmore who was exhibiting almost sadistic glee at detaining Mrs. Hughes. Mrs. Hughes only endured the torture by reminding herself of two things; Mr. Carson could wait out Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Patmore would pay the price tomorrow morning for staying up so late tonight.

It wasn't that Mrs. Hughes didn't want to tell Mrs. Patmore every little detail of the courtship and proposal. She was not willing to disclose the truth until speaking with Mr. Carson. Until then, it must be a battle of wills between the two formidable friends.

"Isn't my opinion of any consequence?" Mr. Carson said as he stuck his head in the door yet again.

"Not really," Mrs. Patmore replied. "We'll call you in when we need the money."

Mrs. Hughes shook her head and rolled her eyes. Mr. Carson smiled encouragement to her.

"I'll bid you good night, then," he said casually and yawned a great, cavernous yawn. "Don't stay up too late, you two. And, Mrs. Hughes, don't let Mrs. Patmore convince you to spend our entire budget on a bidet."

With that, he was gone. Mrs. Hughes tried not to be angry with him for abandoning her, but it was difficult. Then a miracle happened; Mrs. Patmore yawned. Instantly, her anger was gone and her desire to find and kiss Mr. Carson quadrupled. This was what he'd intended, she had no doubt. Mrs. Patmore thought she'd won and would be willing to turn in soon. Mr. Carson would either come back down to meet Mrs. Hughes or, what she now realized was more likely, he was already sitting in his office in the dark waiting for her. She hadn't actually heard his steps heading upstairs.

"He's right," Mrs. Patmore yawned again. "We should probably head up. It's another early day tomorrow."

"Is it ever not an early day?" Mrs. Hughes asked philosophically. "I'll take care of the dishes, Mrs. Patmore."

"No, I can get them," Mrs. Patmore insisted, but her eyes were drooping.

"Nonsense, you've been so helpful tonight; let me."

Confident in her victory, Mrs. Patmore nodded and began to totter up the steps. "Good night, Mrs. Patmore," Mrs. Hughes called after her with a grin. She emptied the coffee pot down the drain and filled it with water to soak. She placed the pot, cups and saucers in the sink and put away the cream and sugar.

As she returned to the hallway, the door to Mr. Carson's pantry opened slowly. Mr. Carson's head peeked comically around the door jamb as he whispered, "Is it safe?"

"For now," she whispered back playfully. He opened the door wider and she slipped in, her shoulder brushing across his chest.

_This was a bad idea_, he thought fleetingly as a shiver of desire passed through him. He marshalled his control and poured them both a glass of rich red wine. They settled into their accustomed chairs before his fire, but the respectable distance between the chairs was lessened considerably. The bottle sat on the small table beside them.

"Mmm," she sipped appreciatively. She saw how his eyes watched her lips. A heady, seductive atmosphere filled the room. It was not the comfortable silence they usually shared. Mrs. Hughes thought she should break the tension a little with a joke. "There's nothing hotter than a Haut-Brion."

"That's a terrible pun," he frowned around a smile and the rim of his glass.

"I'd like to hear you do any better," Mrs. Hughes challenged cheekily. She felt more at ease now that they were teasing each other. She drank deeply of the wine now and gave a contented smile. It had been a long day, but none of that mattered now. This was the time of day she lived for. These were the moments that kept her going; moments when everything felt relaxed and right between them.

Mr. Carson set down his wine as he considered his punning choices. "I like my Bordeaux chilled, but I prefer it Haut."

"That's no better than mine," she laughed and lay her hand over his where it rested beside his wine. He turned his hand over and cradled her tiny hand in his large paw. "But now that you mention it, it is getting warm in here."

"Don't you mean, 'It is getting haut in here?'" he chuckled.

"Yes, it is," she answered as she gave his hand a suggestive squeeze.

With his free hand, Mr. Carson tugged at his collar. A small bead of sweat sprang up at his hairline. He released her hand, picked up his wine glass, and gulped down a large portion. This seemed to calm him. "I'm glad you were able to come by tonight," he said, hoping to introduce a safer subject. "I was beginning to worry that Mrs. Patmore would never release you."

"If you hadn't tricked her, she might not have," Mrs. Hughes agreed. "How did you occupy your time while I was being educated on the wide world of porcelain?"

"I was reading her gift to me." Mr. Carson pointed to the book which lay on his desk.

"Page thirty-two?"

"Amongst others," he answered cryptically.

"And?" Mrs. Hughes prompted. "It was a gift to you, but I think you were meant to share it with me. Just as I think you're meant to benefit from the talc she gave me."

Mr. Carson shrugged and tugged at his collar again. He was feeling very warm in deed. Some of the poems in the book had been very risque and the thought of being close enough to her to smell a thin layer of powder that covered her body was a very distracting thought.

"Very well, I shall see for myself." Mrs. Hughes set down her wine and stood up, heading for his desk to retrieve the book. He reached up to stop her, but he missed her arm and his hand found her waist. He hastily dropped the offending hand.

"It's an Andrew Marvell poem," he confessed as she picked up the book.

"Why does that sound familiar?" She handed the book to him. During their remodeling discussion Mrs. Patmore had hinted that Mrs. Hughes should have Mr. Carson read this particular page to her.

"He was one of the metaphysical poets, like Donne, Herbert and Cowley. This collection is misnamed. The poems are from the seventeenth century alright, but they aren't all romantic. In fact, most of what I've read are rather suggestive," Mr. Carson expounded.

"I don't need a book critique, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Hughes stopped him kindly. "Just tell me about this particular poem."

"I'm sure you've heard it before," he stalled. "It's called 'To His Coy Mistress'. It starts, '_Had we but World enough and Time_.'"

"_'This coyness Lady were no crime_,'" Mrs. Hughes completed with a chuckle. She suspected which of the two of them Mrs. Patmore was accusing of being the coy mistress. "I remember it now. I think there's something about '_the grave's a fine and private place but none I think do there embrace_.'"

"That's the one," Mr. Carson confirmed with admiration.

"That was always a favorite with the lads trying to seduce impressionable maids by putting on airs," Mrs. Hughes nodded knowingly.

"Was it now?" Mr. Carson asked suspiciously.

"It never worked on me," Mrs. Hughes assured him with a smirk. "But then, the right lad never tried."

"In that case, I think we'd best put this away until our understanding is made public," Mr. Carson looked down at the book as though it might explode. "I read a few of the other poems and I think the man at the book stall may have been suggesting something improper to Mrs. Patmore."

It was a rather disturbing thought and Mr. Carson gave a little shiver which made Mrs. Hughes laugh.

"Are they as salacious as that?"

"Rather," Mr. Carson blushed. _One of the poets was named Sir John Suckling, for crying out loud,_ he wanted to tell her, but couldn't. And he wouldn't dream of reading some of the works by John Wilmot to Elsie even after they were married. They were borderline vulgar. "What could Mrs. Patmore mean by giving me something like this?"

"And giving me rose scented body powder? I think our friend has reached the same conclusion we have, Mr. Carson." The butler looked confused so Mrs. Hughes explained, "She just wants us to realize how much we mean to each other."

"But we have."

"She doesn't know that, but I'm sure she suspects, else I wouldn't have been subjected to so much of her attention today. I think we should tell her. She wouldn't dare disrupt our day out if she knew the truth," Mrs. Hughes reasoned. "Now that I've had time to consider, I don't think that locking her into the storeroom is a viable option."

"We may have to tell her then, but that brings up a more pressing issue we need to discuss; how and when we tell the Family our news." He took a moment to pour out the last of the wine before asking, "What are your thoughts on the matter?"

"You tell me yours first," Mrs. Hughes countered.

"Why?"

"So I know what you really think. If I were to say what I want first, you might change what you were going to say for my sake," she said as she gazed fondly into his eyes. "You may depend upon me to fight my corner no matter what you say."

"You know me too well." His eyebrows raised in an admission that her words were true. "Alright then, I think we are agreed that we are not ready to retire."

Mrs. Hughes nodded.

"So I think the best possible outcome is to marry and remain in service until such time as we are both ready to retire." His words were hesitant, as if thinking out loud. He watched her as he spoke, encouraged by her steady smile. "Of course, we'll be asking His Lordship to go against convention, so there is no guarantee that we will be allowed to stay. If they do not wish for us to remain as a married couple, I think we should both leave and put our efforts into running our house as a boarding house or Bed and Breakfast."

"Agreed," Mrs. Hughes said with relief. Despite what she'd said, she was determined to abide by his wishes as far as she could. Change was more difficult for him. Also, she was mindful that it was his money that had purchased their house. He would hate to know that she felt dependent on him, but she could not help it.

With the 'what' stipulated, it was time to discuss the delicate question of 'when'. Mr. Carson held his wine in both hands and staring into the glass. "There are several big changes on the horizon for the estate. In light of that, I think it's probably best if we wait a while."

Mrs. Hughes forced herself to remain calm. _But we've already waited so long…_

"Once Mr. Branson and Lady Rose are gone off to America, we can speak to Lord and Lady Grantham. It will only delay things a week or so. We can still have the Banns read and be married by the end of January if you like."

Mr. Carson raised his eyes from the wine glass when Mrs. Hughes did not reply. She was shaking her head with her lips pressed tightly together, speechless with disbelief. She never dared to dream that he would want to marry so quickly.

He misinterpreted her tearful expression.

"Is that too fast? I'm sorry, my dearest Mrs. Hughes, I don't mean to rush you." He set aside his wine and hers and took her hands. "My eagerness must seem vulgar to you, but I'm done with waiting. I took so long to finally name these feelings I have for you. Then I took even longer to find the courage to do something about it."

He was petting her hands, trying to sooth her. "Rest assured, I will do as you wish. If you want to wait…"

She found her voice before he could finish his sentence. "No! I'm done with waiting as well."

"You're not just saying that?" He asked with the same skepticism he'd shown when she'd accepted his proposal the night before.

"I'd marry you tomorrow if I could," she assured him. "I can hardly say how happy it makes me to hear that you wish to be married before January is over."

He bent over their joined hands and pressed his lips to the backs of her hands. She turned her hands over and cupped his face, raising him up towards her. He was smiling and content until he realized what was happening. Mr. Carson stood up abruptly and danced away from her grasp.

As happy as she had just been, and still was on some level, his actions frustrated her. _This is getting to be ridiculous,_ she thought. "I'm getting mixed signals from you Mr. Carson. You say you want to marry me within a month but then you are afraid of one little kiss."

"I'm not afraid," he insisted. The fact that he was cowering in the corner of the room furthest away from her belied this statement. "And it wouldn't be."

"It wouldn't be what?"

"One or little." He was pacing the floor beside his desk and wringing his hands.

"And what would be so wrong with that?" She asked in frustration.

"If we forgot ourselves, anyone could walk in before we realized. We might be discovered." _Doesn't she care what that would do to our reputations and authority? I'll have to care for the both of us._

"Do you think we are likely to forget ourselves?" She asked in a curious and hopeful tone. "Do you not trust me?"

"It isn't you that I don't trust," he confessed with shame.

"I trust you. It's past midnight. No one else is downstairs," she tried to reason.

Those three facts did not add up to safety in his mind.

"People come downstairs at night for water or cocoa or biscuits," Mr. Carson claimed. "And Mrs. Patmore might seek you out in your room and realize that she's been tricked."

Mrs. Hughes stood up. "Fine, I'll lock the door."

"No, that's even worse!"

"Now you're upsetting me, Mr. Carson," she scolded. "You aren't making any sense."

"I'm sorry for upsetting you, but it does make sense. Aren't we always reminding the staff that nothing under this roof is theirs; not even their time. We've reached the pinnacle of our profession, but the same rules still apply to us." He'd stopped pacing but was still wringing his hands. "My first day as a hall boy I was told that a locked door was an admission of guilt."

Mrs. Hughes had to admit that he had a point. She'd been taught the same thing. She had seen people sacked for being behind a locked door. There were always prior suspicions, but the locked door had been the final proof needed for dismissal.

"But you locked the door last night," she reminded him, knowing that she was losing the fight but unwilling to give up so easily.

"I shouldn't have, but Mrs. Patmore pushed me to it," Mr. Carson said in an agonized tone. "We're lucky she was the one to find the door locked. Any of the other staff would have mentioned it to the rest of the staff. The report might have reached Lord or Lady Grantham. If we plan to stay on at Downton, our behavior must continue to be above reproach."

_Damn it, he's right. Still…_ "All I hear is a litany of excuses for you not to kiss me. I wonder, do you even want to kiss me at all?"

"Of course I do, but…" _She'll think me daft._ "I just don't want to kiss you at Downton. Not yet."

That was not what she wanted to hear at the moment. "Why ever not?"

"As I said, nothing here belongs to us. Everything on this estate and under this roof belongs to them," he pointed upstairs. "I don't want our first kiss to belong to them. I want it to be ours, like our house is ours."

It was his desperate sincerity that won her over. She forced herself to see things from his perspective. He was too well trained. He could not lock the door. If the door is unlocked, there is the possibility that someone might find them. Even though the chance of such a thing happening was low, Mr. Carson was not comfortable leaving anything to chance.

She sighed in defeat and slumped back into her chair as much as her corset would allow her to slump. As things stood at present, Mr. Carson could not relax enough at Downton to kiss her properly.

"Fine. I don't agree, but I understand," she allowed.

"You're wonderful," he praised. He realized that she was going to let him have his stubborn way on this.

"I know," she shrugged, somewhat placated by his admiration. "Now come over here and sit down. I haven't finished my wine."

Mr. Carson took a cautious step towards her.

_The silly old booby,_ she thought. "I'll promise not to try and seduce you on two conditions."

"Name them," Mr. Carson readily agreed.

"First off, we have to tell Mrs. Patmore the truth. Tomorrow. I won't have her hounding our every moment together."

"I think that's a splendid idea," he said with far too much enthusiasm, trying to appease her. "And the second condition?"

"I don't want to wait over a week. We will find a day before the second to visit our house."

At this, Mr. Carson broke into a broad smile. He came back to his chair and sat across from her. "Actually, I was thinking that myself and I looked at the schedule after dinner. Everyone will be taking luncheon away from the house on the twenty-seventh. Lord Grantham, Mr. Branson and Lady Mary are taking a last tour of the farms before Mr. Branson leaves. They're planning to take lunch in the Grantham Arms. Lady Grantham and Lady Edith are going shopping in York and are taking tea at the Dower House. Everyone will be gone from breakfast to dinner. We can take most of the day."

With her promise of a kiss moved up considerably, Mrs. Hughes found her situation much more tolerable.

"Two days?" She considered. "It's not ideal, but it will have to do."

"I do love you, Mrs. Hughes," he smiled timidly at her. He knew no one else in the world would have understood his trepidation, let alone accepted it as graciously as she had. "I hope you won't ever doubt that."

"I don't doubt it, Mr. Carson, and though you can be trying at times, I love you too," she smiled at him with patient affection. "Now why don't you read me that poem? Or perhaps I should be reading it to you. After all, _I'm_ not the coy mistress."

Mr. Carson accepted her teasing gracefully and opened the book of questionable poems.

'Had we but World enough, and Time,  
This coyness Lady were no crime.  
We would sit down, and think which way  
To walk, and pass our long Loves Day.  
Thou by the Indian Ganges side.  
Should'st Rubies find: I by the Tide  
Of Humber would complain. I would  
Love you ten years before the Flood:  
And you should if you please refuse  
Till the Conversion of the Jews.  
My vegetable Love should grow  
Vaster then Empires, and more slow.  
An hundred years should go to praise  
Thine Eyes, and on thy Forehead Gaze.  
Two hundred to adore each Breast.  
But thirty thousand to the rest.  
An Age at least to every part,  
And the last Age should show your Heart.  
For Lady you deserve this State;  
Nor would I love at lower rate.  
But at my back I alwaies hear  
Times winged Charriot hurrying near:  
And yonder all before us lye  
Desarts of vast Eternity.  
Thy Beauty shall no more be found;  
Nor, in thy marble Vault, shall sound  
My ecchoing Song: then Worms shall try  
That long preserv'd Virginity:  
And your quaint Honour turn to durst;  
And into ashes all my Lust.  
The Grave's a fine and private place,  
But none I think do there embrace.  
Now therefore, while the youthful hew  
Sits on thy skin like morning glew,  
And while thy willing Soul transpires  
At every pore with instant Fires,  
Now let us sport us while we may;  
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,  
Rather at once our Time devour,  
Than languish in his slow-chapt pow'r.  
Let us roll all our Strength, and all  
Our sweetness, up into one Ball:  
And tear our Pleasures with rough strife,  
Thorough the Iron gates of Life.  
Thus, though we cannot make our Sun  
Stand still, yet we will make him run.'

TBC…

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**AN/ All props to Andrew Marvell for this lovely poem. The line about 'Vegetable love' is Carson to a tee- 'Vaster than Empires and more slow.'  
**

**We may or may not revisit some of the suggestive (and sometimes downright smutty) poems that Mrs. Patmore bought Mr. Carson.  
**

** Honestly, when I read one of Wilmot's poems online I had to check to see if the website was legit. I didn't know they had the 'F word' back in the 17****th**** century! If you've seen The Libertine with Johnny Depp, that is Wilmot. He's pretty bawdy. He wrote a poem called 'Signor Dildo'. **

**I don't think Mrs. Patmore read most of the poems in the book. I think she wandered into the wrong part of Covent Garden looking for a book that had the Marvell poem in it and ended up with this. ****The metaphysical and satirical poems of that time are anything but romantic, but they sometimes have a refreshingly practical view towards love that might actually suit our couple.  
**

**Enjoy your weekend! I'll try to update by Monday. Mrs. Patmore learns the TRUTH!  
**

**Interesting side note, the poem mentions the Humber, which is the estuary at Hull, which features strongly in a series of my stories (which I will be taking up again soon). I just thought that was funny. Comparing the Humber to the Ganges... seems like a stretch to me. I guess that's what they called 'wit' back in the 17th century.  
**


	22. A Revealing Conversation

Mrs. Hughes came down early Boxing Day to secure a quick private word with Mrs. Patmore.

"I just wanted to remind you that no one knows about Mr. Carson and me buying a house together yet," Mrs. Hughes whispered after pulling Mrs. Patmore out of the kitchen and into the empty hallway. "We don't want the family to find out from anyone but us."

"I understand," Mrs. Patmore nodded. The cook was bleary eyed and sipping on a strong cup of coffee. Mrs. Hughes was a little glad to see Mrs. Patmore paying for her mischief the night before.

"Could you spare some time before luncheon to walk down to the kitchen garden? It's promising to be a clear day."

"The kitchen garden? What reason would we have to go there?" The cook eyed the housekeeper suspiciously.

"To see how it has weathered the winter and to discuss what we'd like the gardeners to plant this spring," Mrs. Hughes spoke as though it were obvious.

"We won't need to make our planting requests until late February," Mrs. Patmore protested. She was in no mood for games this morning.

"Fine, if you must know, there's something about the cottage I'd hoped to discuss today, but I'd like it to be away from prying eyes and ears," Mrs. Hughes continued.

"What did you have in mind?" Mrs. Patmore asked, her interest piqued and her fatigue forgotten.

"You'll have to wait to find out," Mrs. Hughes deflected but gave her friend a small smile. "Can you make the time?"

"Does the pope wear a pointy hat?" Came the cheeky answer. "I'll see you around eleven?"

"Eleven it is. Thank you, Mrs. Patmore."

-00-

After yesterday's festivities, the staff were rather subdued during breakfast which suited Mr. Carson's tastes. He and Mrs. Hughes had been up quite late the night before, but the two heads of household looked fresher than any of their charges.

Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes sat side by side as they had for thousands of mornings. Because he'd worked through breakfast Christmas morning, this was the first time since their engagement that they had faced each other over breakfast. Both worked very hard to keep to their usual pattern. They discussed the schedule for the day as was their routine. To the unsuspecting staff there were no visible signs of a change between the two. Mrs. Patmore, however, scrutinized their every move whenever she found reason to come into the servant's hall, which was more often than usual. Her keen eye caught how reluctantly Mr. Carson's gaze was drawn from Mrs. Hughes. When he looked up the table to issue an order to Andrew, his head turned a good two seconds before his eyes followed. It was very uncharacteristic of Charles Carson to allow his attention to be divided like that.

Mr. Carson was aware that Mrs. Patmore was watching him. He was determined to give nothing away. He shoveled his breakfast into his mouth and focused on chewing every bite thoroughly as he struggled to keep a smile from his face. He avoided eye contact with Mrs. Hughes when Mrs. Patmore was in the room, but was drawn back as soon as the cook returned to the kitchen.

"I'm telling her before luncheon," Mrs. Hughes whispered as the bells began to ring and the staff began to disperse.

"Thank goodness, she's watching us like a hawk," he muttered under his breath. "She'll make me paranoid by the end of the day if this keeps up. I feel like I'm being subjected to the Spanish Inquisition."

Mrs. Hughes enjoyed a small chuckle at his expense as she walked away. She wondered if being on the stage had made him so melodramatic or if he'd always been that way. Over the years, Mrs. Hughes had tried to help him take the little things less seriously. She'd had a modicum of success, but her influence was limited as a friend. As a wife, however…

"You're in a good mood, Mrs. Hughes," Thomas observed.

"You know me, Mr. Barrow, I always enjoy the holidays," Mrs. Hughes replied smoothly, though the under butler's words had jarred her from her pleasant musings. "And it's nice to have Mr. Bates back."

"Yes, Happy Christmas to all," Thomas sneered.

"You should be glad; you won't have to pull double duty as valet anymore."

Thomas only shrugged as Mrs. Hughes watched him head into the kitchen to see that breakfast was ready to be taken upstairs. She was surprised to see that Mr. Carson also watching Thomas with a pensive expression. He looked up the hallway towards her. When their eyes met, his frown dissolved. He gave her a brief but brilliant smile and disappeared into his pantry.

-00-

"We ran low on cabbage this year," Mrs. Hughes noted as she and Mrs. Patmore headed away from the house and towards the kitchen garden.

"That new undergardener thought he knew how to handle slugs and made a mess of things," Mrs. Patmore agreed. "It wasn't a problem with how many plants we requested. Now, what's this all about? We haven't made any big changes to the kitchen garden since the war ended."

Mrs. Hughes did not answer immediately. The women were approaching the walled kitchen garden. A bench sat just inside the entrance, close to the wall and sheltered from the cold winter wind. Mrs. Hughes gestured for Mrs. Patmore to have a seat and then sat down beside her friend.

"I suspect you've guessed some of what I'm about to tell you, but you need a little background," Mrs. Hughes began. "You already know that I accompanied Mr. Carson when he was looking at properties and that I was thinking of investing with him. I wasn't sure I could afford it, but I thought I had time to consider. Truth be told, I didn't think he'd decide on a property that quickly."

"He was rather eager, wasn't he?" Mrs. Patmore couldn't resist commenting.

"Yes, well," Mrs. Hughes refrained from responding. "I'm not sure if you know that I have a sister. I don't talk about her much."

"In Lytham St. Annes?"

"How did you know that?" It was a minor shock to hear that Mrs. Patmore knew so much about Becky. _ How much does she know?_ Mrs. Hughes wondered.

"Daisy mentioned it once. I told her she was daft because you couldn't have a sister without my knowing it, but she said Thomas told her that your only family was a sister who lived in Lytham St. Annes."

"He must have taken note of our letters, the nosy little beggar," Mrs. Hughes grumbled. The only evidence of Becky that Thomas could have found would have been the post. "Regardless, I don't think anyone knew until recently that my sister, Becky, requires special care."

"What do you mean, 'special care'?" Mrs. Patmore asked cautiously.

"She never developed mentally past childhood. She's perfectly normal otherwise, but she's prone to fits and needs someone who can watch her almost constantly. After my mother died, I had to pay for people to care for her. It was either that or leave service and have no means to support the two of us."

"So you never had the money to invest?"

"Nor any hope of it, but I played along with Mr. Carson's plans since it seemed to make him happy and because…"

"Because you love him," Mrs. Patmore finished for her.

"Yes," Mrs. Hughes confirmed. "When he wanted us to put an offer in for the house, I had to tell him the truth."

"You told him you loved him?" Mrs. Patmore gasped.

"No, I told him about Becky and that I had no money. He was very kind and didn't make me feel guilty for stringing him along like that, which he could have," Mrs. Hughes remembered fondly. "As you know, he went ahead with his plans without me. That's where I thought it ended, until Christmas Eve."

Mrs. Patmore had been slowly scooting closer as Mrs. Hughes told her story. Her knees were pressed solidly against the housekeeper's and she leaned in, listening breathlessly like a child listening to a ghost story. "What happened Christmas Eve?" She asked in an expectant whisper.

"Mr. Carson told me that he'd included my name on the deed when he purchased the house. He said that we had a plan and we should stick to it. You were right when you said he didn't need my money; he needed my experience. He still wanted me to help him run the house with him."

Mrs. Patmore sat back, disappointed. "You mean he asked you to retire from being Downton's housekeeper so you could be _his_ housekeeper?"

"In a manner of speaking," Mrs. Hughes smiled.

"That bloody coward! I'm going to kill him!" Mrs. Patmore jumped up and stomped angrily around in front of the bench. "The gall that man has! I swear, I don't know how you endure it, Mrs. Hughes, I really don't."

Mrs. Hughes was shocked by Mrs. Patmore's violent reaction. It would have been comical but for the very real possibility that Mrs. Patmore was about to stomp back to the house and attack Mr. Carson verbally, physically or both.

"Calm down, Mrs. Patmore, my story isn't done," Mrs. Hughes soothed. "I turned him down."

"You what?" Mrs. Patmore stopped in midstomp and stared.

"I said I could not accept his charity, but then he…" Mrs. Hughes felt tears of happiness welling up in her as she relived the greatest moment of her life. "He admitted that what he really wanted was to ask me to marry him."

"Ooph," Mrs. Patmore squeaked and raised her hands to her mouth. Her eyes were wide. She obviously wanted to speak, but she also didn't want to miss hearing Mrs. Hughes confirm her answer.

"I said 'yes'," Mrs. Hughes finished with a nonchalant shrug of one shoulder.

"Saints be praised!" Mrs. Patmore declared to the sky before throwing herself at Mrs. Hughes. The two women shared a tearful embrace.

Until that moment of seeing her friend's genuine joy and excitement, Mrs. Hughes had not realized how much she wanted to tell Mrs. Patmore about the engagement to Mr. Carson. Happy news is never complete until it's been shared. Having another person know the truth gave their understanding substance, taking it from the world of dreams into reality.

"Did that stubborn badger tell you that he loved you?" Mrs. Patmore demanded very seriously.

"He did," Mrs. Hughes confirmed gleefully before Mrs. Patmore's deceptively strong arms began crushing her again.

"He's a good man," Mrs. Patmore sniffed. "I've always said that. A tad slow on the uptake sometimes, but a good man."

"He'll be pleased to hear that you think so," Mrs. Hughes laughed. "I think so too."

"Does this mean I'm not invited to join you at the house on the second?"

"You can stop by, but you can't stay the whole day," Mrs. Hughes said firmly.

"I wasn't planning to, I have my own house to look after," Mrs. Patmore assured her. "And we were planning to have tea after looking at the latest renovations."

"'We'?" Mrs. Hughes asked, catching the odd pronoun. "Who exactly is 'we', Mrs. Patmore?"

"Oh, hasn't Daisy said?" Mrs. Patmore answered cagily, knowing full well Daisy had never said because Daisy didn't know. "Mr. Mason has been advising me on the improvements to my house. He even lent me a few lads for some of the heavy work."

"Did he now? That was very kind of him." Mrs. Hughes said suggestively.

"It's nothing like that," Mrs. Patmore protested when she saw Mrs. Hughes' smirk. "He's just helping me because of everything I've done for Daisy."

"Of course, I'm sure it's all perfectly innocent," Mrs. Hughes accepted, but continued grinning wildly. "Still, he is an eligible widower."

"There's nothing going on," Mrs. Patmore insisted.

"Not yet, perhaps, but you should be careful, Mrs. Patmore," Mrs. Hughes teased. "Now that you have property, you're a good catch yourself. You shall have to be careful of men trying to seduce you for your wealth as well as your cooking."

"Love has made you mad, Mrs. Hughes," Mrs. Patmore laughed.

"Yes, it has, Mrs. Patmore; I highly recommend it."

TBC…

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**AN/ Don't mock me too much when I say…I think there will be two more chapters*. ****They will be long chapters, but it's about time that I**** put this story aside (at least until the new season begins).  
**

**[*That does ****not**** include the Patmore Bathtub Supplemental story which will post independently.] **


	23. Secrets Cast Long Shadows

**AN/ Damn it! Why do I bother making predictions before the story is finished? This 'scene' ran away from me and became 3 scenes. To avoid a 5,000 word chapter, I am cutting it in half. Please disregard my premature announcement of X chapters left (and all such subsequent announcements). If you know me, I'm sure you already had.  
**

* * *

Mr. Carson tried not to be too obvious as he loitered around the hallway waiting for Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore to return from their inspection of the garden. Unfortunately, his size made his presence hard to ignore. Daisy finally snapped.

"If Mrs. Patmore weren't confident that I could handle lunch on me own, she shouldn't have suggested it," she groused to the butler who was shocked to be challenged by the irate young woman.

"What?" Mr. Carson asked with raised eyebrows.

"Didn't she send you to spy on me?" Daisy asked in a less confident tone. She'd never addressed Mr. Carson in such a tone before.

_She really is becoming just like Mrs. Patmore_, Mr. Carson thought fondly.

"No, I was hoping to speak to Mrs. Hughes when she returned from the garden with Mrs. Patmore. I will say, from the little that I've observed, you are doing very well. If Mrs. Patmore asks, I will certainly tell her so."

He retreated to his pantry, not wanting to make Daisy any more nervous than she already was. To stop himself from pacing, he picked up the book of poetry Mrs. Patmore had given him, opened it to a random page and began to read.

_'By All Love's Soft, Yet Might Powers'_, he read the title. _That sounds promising._

'By all love's soft, yet might powers,  
It is a thing unfit,  
That men should fuck in time of flowers,  
Or when the smock's beshit.'

Mr. Carson looked at the author's name. _John Wilmot. Figures_, he sighed. He closed the book with a snap, but was not quick enough to miss the words 'smoking prick' in a later stanza. _What a disturbing thought,_ he shuddered.

This book presented quite the dilemma for him. It was a gift from a dear friend, so he could not destroy it. Neither could he display it for fear that someone might read it and think that he approved of or enjoyed such vulgarity. The only solution seemed to be to wrap it in a paper bag and hide it in the only drawer in his desk which locked.

To purge the smut from his brain, Mr. Carson opened the fresh ledger that he'd begun to track the costs associated with their house. The first few pages included some very rudimentary estimates of costs and projected income. Even using conservative numbers, the house promised to yield some impressive returns. There was one section of calculations accented by question marks. He'd had to make some presumptions to fill it out and he wasn't sure how to approach Mrs. Hughes for accurate numbers. This section was labeled simply, 'Becky'.

Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes had not returned by the time Mr. Carson headed upstairs to oversee family luncheon. He wasn't sure whether to take that as a good sign or a bad one. His anxiety was temporarily displaced by duty as he presided over a quiet luncheon.

"Carson, will you help Mr. Branson choose some suitable luggage for his journey?" Lady Mary requested. "All he has is one scruffy trunk."

"That isn't necessary, Mary," Tom objected.

"Nonsense, we can't send you off to America like some vagabond," Mary insisted. "Carson? I'm certain we have some older trunks that won't be too posh for Mr. Branson."

"I'm sure I can find something to Mr. Branson's liking, My Lady," the butler replied coolly. Mr. Carson could not help but notice that Lady Mary gave him a smile larger than the situation warranted. In fact, he began to realize that she was watching him and smirking throughout the rest of the meal. Disconcerted by her strange behavior, Mr. Carson was happy when the meal ended and he descended to the servant's luncheon.

If he had any doubts about Mrs. Patmore's reception of the news, they were obliterated by the sight that greeted him at the base of the stairs. The cook was beaming fit to bust. She refrained from saying anything, but nodded her head towards his pantry. Obliging her, he gestured for her to precede him, much as he had gestured to Mrs. Hughes only a few short nights ago.

The door was barely shut before Mrs. Patmore began to crow.

"Well done, Mr. Carson, you old dog. I knew you'd come 'round in the end," she professed proudly and slapped him brusquely on the arm.

"You approve then?" He asked, catching her contagious smile.

"Approve doesn't even begin to cover it, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Patmore confessed. "I wish I could claim some responsibility, but I hear you proposed before reading the poems I bought you."

"But in a way, you do deserve some of the credit; touring your house gave me the inspiration," Mr. Carson pointed out.

"That's true," Mrs. Patmore acknowledged. "In that case, you owe me, Charles Carson."

"Whatever favor you wish, name it," Mr. Carson offered.

"Hmm. I'll have to think on that," she answered thoughtfully. Mr. Carson immediately regretted his offer.

"We'd better get to lunch," he observed. He moved to open the door for her. Before he opened the door, a thought struck him. "Out of curiosity, Mrs. Patmore, did you actually _read _any of the other poems in the book you bought me?"

"Do I look like a toff who reads poetry, Mr. Carson?" She scoffed at him.

"Then how did you know the Marvell poem?"

"There's not a lass in service who hasn't heard that poem once or twice."

Mr. Carson finally opened the door and stood aside to allow her to pass. As she passed by him, Mrs. Patmore reached up and pinched his cheek playfully. "Well done, Mr. Carson."

After confirming that no one had seen her 'cheeky' display, Mr. Carson allowed himself a small chuckle. He turned away from his office and joined the staff which awaited his arrival to begin luncheon. Mrs. Hughes was speaking to Anna as he entered, but stopped as the staff stood. Settling back into her seat, Mrs. Hughes spared him the biggest smile she dared. It was only a slight uptick to one corner of her mouth, but it was stunning enough to make him almost drop his napkin.

-00-

"I'm glad Mrs. Patmore approves, but I'll have to ask her to stop giving me extra portions for my meals," Mr. Carson joked to Mrs. Hughes who had joined him in his office after luncheon.

"Don't you like the extra portions?"

"Of course, I do, but I want to be trim so I can cut a fine figure on our wedding day."

"When you said we were getting married by the end of January; you did mean _this _January?" Mrs. Hughes teased.

"Fine," Mr. Carson conceded with a sappy grin. "Even if I can't be trim, I can at least avoid being overly plump."

"You'll cut a dash no matter what, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Hughes comforted. "You always do."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes, but no one will be looking at me when we marry. Not when they have you to look at instead."

"_I'll_ be looking at you," Mrs. Hughes promised. "And I'm sure Lady Mary will take notice of you, she always does."

"Speaking of which, Lady Mary was taking extra notice of me at luncheon and acting strangely. Did she mention anything to you on Christmas?"

"Actually, she saw that we were missing during her solo on Christmas Eve. She suspects that things may have changed between us."

"She only suspects?"

"I wouldn't confirm anything, but I couldn't deny it when she asked me straight out."

"What did she say? Or don't I want to know?" Mr. Carson didn't want to seem too anxious to know Lady Mary's reaction to his engagement to Mrs. Hughes. He valued Lady Mary's opinion, but he did not want Mrs. Hughes to fear that his resolve might be swayed by a negative response from that quarter.

"She told me not to break your heart, which I didn't think it was her place to say."

"You didn't tell her that, did you?" Mr. Carson nearly fainted away at the thought.

"No, I held my tongue as I always do with her. Almost always," Mrs. Hughes amended. "She also asked me not to take you away from her too soon."

Mrs. Hughes watched her fiancé's reaction to this very closely. He did the last thing she'd expected; he shrugged.

"That's up to Lord and Lady Grantham, not to us," he said in a forced dismissive manner. "They can keep us on or not."

_You're laying it on a little thick, Charlie boy,_ she'll see right through you.

Indeed, she must have, for she smiled at him lovingly and said, "I know it means more to you than that, but thank you. It was nice to hear."

"I may not be keen to hand over the reins to Mr. Barrow, but I will not let their decision cause any delays."

"Don't you think Mr. Barrow is ready? He's been much better lately," Mrs. Hughes observed. "I believe Miss Baxter has had as much impact on his attitude as she has on Mr. Molesley's; though for different reasons."

Mr. Carson just rolled his eyes at the mention of Mr. Molesley and Miss Baxter. He would have put a stop to their flirting a long time ago, but his conscience would not let him be such a hypocrite. "I wonder if Mr. Barrow's good behavior will continue now that Mr. Bates has returned."

"You don't blame Mr. Bates for Thomas' behavior, do you?"

"While Mr. Barrow is responsible for his own behavior, you must admit that there is something about Mr. Bates that antagonizes him," Mr. Carson argued. "It's to be expected, I suppose; Mr. Bates has everything Mr. Barrow wants but has been denied."

"Such as?"

"The job as valet, for starters. I believe if given the choice between butler and valet, Mr. Barrow would prefer valet."

"I believe you're right. He did seem disappointed to be giving up the extra work. Why do you think that is? Butler outranks valet."

"For things involving the household, yes, but valets have more influence over personal matters. Thomas likes having His Lordship's ear and I think he likes the potential for travel. A butler rarely sees anything but the estate and the London house. He's already promised Miss Sybbie that he'll visit America with the family."

"That was presumptuous of him," Mrs. Hughes frowned.

"Perhaps, but the valet job is only part of the animosity . I think Thomas is jealous that Mr. Bates is so well liked. Mr. Bates has respect and he has love. These are things Mr. Barrow wants but feels he can never have."

"That's very insightful, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Hughes exclaimed in astonishment.

"Not really. I've often envied Mr. Bates myself."

"Have you?"

"Before Mr. Bates arrived, I was His Lordship's closest confidant but that is no longer the case. How could I compete with him? They've been to war together, after all," Mr. Carson spoke without malice, but there was some sadness in his voice. Mrs. Hughes hadn't considered how Mr. Bates had supplanted Mr. Carson as Lord Grantham's most trusted adviser.

"The thing I envy most at the moment is his being allowed to marry and retain his position in the household… You know, we may not be afforded the same opportunity."

"True, but you can't envy them both all the troubles they've had."

At this, Mr. Carson fell silent.

"What is it, Mr. Carson, is there something wrong?" Mrs. Hughes wondered.

"It's nothing," he replied curtly.

"I can tell the difference between something and nothing," she pressed.

"It's nothing we can discuss," Mr. Carson insisted. "Let's leave it at that."

"You know I'm not likely to do that," she teased lightly, covering her unease at his sudden change of mood.

"I suppose it's your choice then, it isn't _my_ secret." He sounded more petulant than he'd intended.

"It isn't mine either," Mrs. Hughes replied coldly, assuming she knew to what he referred. This was a conversation she'd long dreaded but had thankfully avoided. She had dared to hope that he'd accepted her cryptic answers, but apparently, he had not. She thought bitterly how Mr. Green could still harm people from beyond the grave.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hughes, but I disagree. I've long since accepted that you are the person people bring their secrets to in this house. A household needs a confidant that everyone can trust and that was never going to be me," Mr. Carson acknowledged. "I've never pressed you to tell me anything or to break any confidences, but, until now, I could trust that you would tell me what I needed to know."

"What do you mean, 'until now'?"

Mr. Carson told himself that he could accept that Anna wanted to keep her attack private. He understood why she wouldn't go to the authorities. Most cases like that end up with the woman's name being dragged publicly through the mud and the man escaping justice. Mr. Carson was in favor of avoiding public scandal, but this was a case where he, as butler of Downton Abbey, needed to know about a dangerous attack that occurred on his watch. The scandal surrounding Green's death was a thousand times worse than what would have happened if Anna had gone to the authorities immediately.

"You've said that you don't lie, but that isn't true. You don't usually lie to me, or so I like to think, but I've seen you lie to others." His words tasted bitter in his mouth and sounded bitter to her ear. "I saw how easily you lied to Mrs. Patmore yesterday and she is one of your closest friends."

"I didn't want to lie to her, but _someone_ let the cat out of the bag before we could discuss it," she said defensively.

"I'm sure you didn't want to lie, and yet you did it so naturally. I can't help but think…" He glared at a misplaced pen on his desk, picked it up, and set it in its proper place. "No one has to know everything, Mrs. Hughes. I've said it and I mean it. I know you don't tell me everything and that isn't the issue. As I said, I've trusted you to tell me what I need to know."

He looked directly into her eyes. "You should have told me about Anna and Mr. Green," he said simply. His tone was not accusatory; it was sad.

"I couldn't tell you. It wasn't my secret to tell," she insisted.

"You're wrong; it wasn't your secret to keep. Not from me," Mr. Carson frowned. "Maybe, if he'd just gone away and never come back, I could respect you defending Anna's right to privacy, but you knew what that man was. When he came back into this house, you didn't think I needed to know?"

"There was nothing you could have done if you had known."

"You think me as toothless as that?" He was stung. Did she really see him as helpless in this case? "The sad truth is, men like that monster have always existed. Over the years, butlers have had to deal with more than our share of that kind. There are things that could have been done."

Mrs. Hughes was becoming angry at having to defend herself. She'd wanted to tell him everything. Did he think she enjoyed keeping secrets from him?

"Mr. Carson, need I remind you that it is _my_ place to look after the women of this household? I take that role very seriously," she fumed. "I'll have you know that I spoke to Mr. Green when he returned. I told him that I knew what he had done, that I was watching, him and that he should keep his head down if he valued his life."

At this revelation Mr. Carson's heart constricted. Hatred and anger filled him, driving out all other thought or feeling like water displacing the air in the lungs of a drowning man. She had confronted that monster! Alone!

Even in his shocked state, he knew enough to remove himself from the present situation. He knew whatever he said next would be hurtful and possibly irreversible.

He stood up and left the room without a word, but not before Mrs. Hughes had seen the cold rage in his eyes. This was not the blustering, often comical ire over mismatched crystal or some other impropriety. This was something deeper and far more frightening. This was something she had never seen in him before.

TBC... SOON!

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**AN/ Apparently, I am using this to exorcise some personal demons about 'The Storyline That Will Not Die!'**

**On a lighter note...**

**For your edification, here is the full poem by John Wilmot.**

'**By All Love's Soft, Yet Mighty Powers **

By all love's soft, yet mighty powers,  
It is a thing unfit,  
That men should fuck in time of flowers,  
Or when the smock's beshit.

Fair nasty nymph, be clean and kind,  
And all my joys restore;  
By using paper still behind,  
And sponges for before.

My spotless flames can ne'er decay,  
If after every close,  
My smoking prick escape the fray,  
Without a bloody nose.

If thou would have me true, be wise,  
And take to cleanly sinning,  
None but fresh lovers' pricks can rise,  
At Phyllis in foul linen.

**I thought it was funny that the poem referenced the name 'Phyllis' because of the awesome Phyllis Logan.  
**

**FYI, Phyllis is one of the Heroines from Ovid's 'Heroides'. She helped a Greek hero on his way home from the Trojan War. She rebuilt his fleet and he married her but he left the day after they married and never returned. Basically, she was the most famous one night stand in Greek mythology (and there were lots). She walked the cliffs and watched the sea for his return. Eventually, she hung herself and turned into a nut tree (almond, hazelnut or something.) **

**I take this poem to be the author basically saying that he only wants to sleep with virgins. Once he's plucked/ fucked the flower the woman is soiled and foul.  
**

**[ETA- deeedeee had a different (and better) interpretation of the poem. You may read her review, but the gist is that he's talking about feminine/ sexual hygiene. In any event, it's a poem of which Mr. Carson would hardly approve.] **


	24. In the Boot Room

**AN/ Quick update, make sure you've read the previous chapter...we'll wait.**

* * *

After leaving his office, Mr. Carson went wherever his feet took him as quickly as they would carry him. He ended up in the luggage room in the attics. Climbing all those stairs at such a manic pace had winded him. As he climbed, he thought of all the terrible accusations he would have thrown at her if he'd stayed; all of them true but unfounded at the same time.

He could have told her about Mr. Green's most recent victims; the ones after Anna. According to Sergeant Willis, three of the women who had come forward about Mr. Green had been attacked after his first visit to Downton. The most recent attack had been just two weeks before the accident.

He could have unfairly blamed their pain and suffering on her secrecy. If she'd only told him, he could have put out the word about Mr. Green. Butlers have a network and their own language, a way of saying things that could not be explicitly stated. One word spoken to a contact in London about Mr. Green being 'questionable around the maids' would have done the trick. That kind of information spread like wildfire amongst the brotherhood of butlers in London. They, in turn, would have written to their fellows in the countryside. At the very least, Mr. Green would have found himself watched at every turn. At best, some enterprising butler might take it into his head to frame the valet for theft and seen him dismissed.

Mr. Carson would have framed Green himself, if he'd known about the attack when the valet returned to Downton.

Why hadn't she told him? She didn't have to tell him everything, just enough to know what Green was. He wouldn't have needed specifics. He would have taken Mrs. Hughes at her word. He might have guessed that the victim was Anna, but he would not have insisted on knowing and he never would have let Anna know that he knew.

If he hadn't run away from Mrs. Hughes, he might have pointed out how Anna's current problems had been compounded by the web of lies Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Bates had spun around Anna. Mr. Carson knew they were trying to protect her, but they'd only made her more suspicious in the eyes of the inspector from Scotland Yard.

He'd long suspected that Anna had been attacked by Mr. Green but he'd convinced himself that Mrs. Hughes hadn't found out until after Green died. Now that he knew the truth he had to face the fact that he had failed both Anna and Mrs. Hughes. Neither of them trusted him to protect them, neither of them thought he could help.

_Is that what you're really upset about, Charlie boy? Did they hurt your ego? _

He shook his head. Though his ego had been bruised, that wasn't the worst of it. People he loved had been hurt, threatened and frightened and he had missed the opportunity to help them. The most frustrating part was that it was all in the past and there was nothing he could do now to change anything.

Out of breath and leaning against a dusty beam he'd cursed himself for being old and useless. How could he face Mrs. Hughes or Anna again? He fleetingly wished for a heart attack to end the pain and helplessness he was feeling, but that indulgence passed. There was work to be done; blessed work behind which to hide his confusion and his weakness.

Mr. Carson rummaged roughly through the luggage room and found several suitable trunks for Mr. Branson. He should have called for assistance or had Andrew and Mr. Molesley handle the lifting, but the physical labor soothed him. By the time he'd brought the desired luggage to the front of the pile, he wasn't angry at her any more. He wasn't sure if had ever been angry with her exactly. It was the whole situation that was maddening. None of it made any sense to him. Lady Mary had been upset with him for waiting a full day before turning Mr. Bates' letter over to the police. He still wasn't sure why it had mattered. He hadn't expected it to affect Anna at all. How could the police take such a confession seriously when it was so obviously orchestrated to exonerate Anna?

He didn't understand how it was that Anna was still free if Mr. Bates had been cleared. If the witness was as unreliable as Mr. Murray claimed, how were they able to arrest Anna in the first place?

Calmed by his labors and fatigued from asking the unanswerable questions, Mr. Carson finally descended to the main house to assist Mr. Branson with his packing. He took a break briefly to oversee the family tea, but returned to Mr. Branson's room

-00-

Mrs. Hughes didn't see Mr. Carson again until almost five in the afternoon. He had disappeared upstairs and she had no excuse to follow him. He had even skipped his afternoon tea, which would be cause enough for alarm. Others had noticed his odd absence, but only Thomas dared say anything, noting that maybe Mr. Carson was trying to lose his winter weight.

"He certainly had a big lunch," Thomas joked.

Mrs. Hughes had silenced him immediately with a glare.

Finally, a report reached her that Mr. Carson was in the boot room. Though she hardly believed it could be true, Mrs. Hughes headed down the hall to find him, eager to defend herself and her actions. She stomped into the boot room and closed the door behind her. He looked up when he heard the door close.

An eerie sense of deja vu swept over Mrs. Hughes. Mr. Carson was sitting on a stool, polishing a small pile of shoes just as Mr. Green had been. She remembered how smug Mr. Green had been when she had cornered him here so long ago. Mr. Carson looked more contrite than smug, but the similarities caught her off guard. She forgot all the fine arguments she'd rehearsed throughout the afternoon.

"Are those Mr. Branson's shoes?" She stammered after standing in silence too long.

"I was helping him pack for his trip when I saw that he'd just thrown his shoes into a steamer trunk all higgledy-piggledy. There were no shoe trees, no bags and most were in need of a good polish." He waved his hand over the evidence before him. He spoke as if nothing extraordinary had passed between them. She saw no sign of the cold, hard anger she'd seen in him earlier. He was the familiar, stuffy butler again. "He can let them go to the Devil if he likes once he gets to America, but we won't send him off looking as if we didn't take proper care of him."

"I didn't come here to discuss the state of Mr. Branson's shoes," Mrs. Hughes said firmly. She was not going to let him retreat into the butler persona. They needed to finish what they'd started or it would hang over them like a cloud.

"If you came to continue our conversation from earlier, Mrs. Hughes, I beg you not to." He worked as he spoke, his movements practiced and sure. He was already almost finished with two pairs of black shoes. They shone like patent leather.

"As I tell my maids, Mr. Carson, sweeping something under the carpet does not make it go away."

"All the same, I ask that you not pursue this. I don't want an argument. I've no wish to be cross with you." He inspected a shoe very closely, avoiding eye contact.

His words reignited the indignation inside her. "_You_ will be cross with _me?_"

"It is not extraordinary when someone stupid does something stupid," he sighed in resignation as he placed shoe trees in the already polished shoes and slipped each pair into its own cloth bag. "But when someone of your intelligence does something foolish, it's a great disappointment."

"Stupid? Foolish?" Her voice was high-pitched with incredulous anger.

"Yes. There is no other way to describe confronting a violent man by yourself, Mrs. Hughes. It was reckless and dangerous and _colossally _stupid." His voice was calm as he began to apply polish the small pile of brown shoes. If someone did not understand English, they would have thought he was discussing nothing more exciting than the weather.

"I'll have you know, Mr. Carson, that I was never in danger. In fact, I confronted him in this very room. He was sitting where you are now."

He glanced up at her briefly. She was bristling with anger, standing defiantly before him more vulnerable than she knew. She believed what she was saying. She'd never imagined that she could be in danger; not at Downton.

"And you stood where you are now?"

"Yes."

"Did you close the door?"

His question puzzled her, but she confirmed, "Yes. I didn't want anyone to overhear, but there were people in the hall close enough to come if called for. It was all perfectly safe."

Mr. Carson looked at her properly now. He set aside the shoes and rag he was holding and stood slowly. She watched him curiously. Before she could say anything, he'd crossed the room in two strides and grabbed her. His left arm was around her waist, pressing her against him with her arms pinned uselessly to her sides. His right hand covered her mouth firmly, but gently. Her heart was racing. If anyone else had grabbed her like that, she would have been terrified for her life, but she didn't feel any fear. She stared up at him in shock as he held her immobile.

"Why didn't you call for help?" He asked conversationally, as if asking her to pass the salt.

After a few seconds he removed his hand from her mouth but still held her securely with his left arm.

"Just like that, Mrs. Hughes," he said in a low, hoarse whisper. His face was so close to hers she could feel his labored breath on her lips. "He could have hurt you, just that quickly."

His dark, gentle eyes were swimming in tears that he would not let fall. His stare was so intense that Mrs. Hughes did not dare blink and her own eyes began to water. Mr. Carson slowly released his grip on her waist and drew away from her. He felt that he'd proven his point.

She stumbled slightly back from him when he released her but she recovered her former, defiant stance.

"Men like that think they are untouchable, Mrs. Hughes," Mr. Carson explained in a low growl. "He didn't care if there were people around or not. Confronting him would only have excited him. He doesn't often get to brag about what he's gotten away with. No doubt he found your anger amusing."

Mrs. Hughes said nothing, but she remembered the toothy smile on Mr. Green's face during their conversation. He had known that she was powerless and he had enjoyed her impotent fury.

"Or your threat could have made him desperate. Either way, you put yourself in a very precarious position, Mrs. Hughes," Mr. Carson continued. "If anyone else in this household put you in such danger, I would box their ears and sack them before their ears stopped ringing.

"I ought to be angry with you, and I was at first, but then I was more relieved and grateful that you were unharmed…Honestly, I don't know what to feel right now."

He turned his back to her and returned his attention to the shoes. He wiped off the excess polish and began to buff vigorously with the soft brush. Mrs. Hughes stood rooted to her spot. She hadn't considered until today that she had indeed been in danger during her confrontation with Mr. Green. Mr. Carson's frightening earlier expression made more sense to her now. It hadn't just been anger. It had been fear for her safety.

"I just wish you had told me before you confronted him." Mr. Carson's voice was barely audible. "I wish you felt you could trust me. I wish you'd given me the chance to help you." _To protect you. To protect this house._

Mrs. Hughes felt humiliated. She realized that she had been stupid to keep her knowledge of Green's violence to herself. She wanted to tell Mr. Carson that she trusted him, but how could he believe her when her actions had proven otherwise. She wanted to tell him that she hadn't needed his help, but nothing could be further from the truth. She had needed his help, his support, his understanding, but her fear of hurting Anna further had made reaching out to him impossible.

He buffed at a shoe violently, trying to calm himself again. Almost a minute passed in silence. The only sounds were the whoosh of the bristles over the smooth leather of the shoes. Mr. Carson knew he had crossed a line. He knew he shouldn't have frightened her like that but he couldn't think of any other way to make her understand the possible consequences of her decision.

He finished the last shoe and placed the freshly polished pair into a cloth bag. With a great sigh, he prepared to face her again. He needed to apologize; to tell her he'd overreacted because the thought of someone hurting her scared him to his core.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hu-…" He stopped when he realized that he was alone. The boot room door was open and she was already gone.

The End.

Just kidding;)

TBC...

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**AN/ If this chapter reminds anyone somewhat of the "Bear Attack" chapter from 'Moving Forward', that is not an accident. I love when Carson's physicality comes into play (like when he manhandled Tom when they thought he was going to assassinate the general). He is a gentle and rational man, but his size and strength give him the potential to be quite frightening (and more than a little sexy) when he loses control.  
**

**I think I've hit most of the main points that I HATE about the Anna Attack storyline. The fact that Mr. Bates' 'confession' actually resulted in Anna's release is a JOKE. If the case was that flimsy, Murray should have gotten her out of jail LOOOOONG ago. Don't blame Carson that Anna spent one extra day in jail. Blame Anna, Bates, Mary and Elsie for lying to the authorities and making her look guilty. Blame Murray for being a shite lawyer. But lay off Carson, who is as genuinely flummoxed by the continuation of this storyline as we are.**

**I don't think it's addressed enough that Mrs. Hughes was in real danger when she confronted Green. Someone wrote a story about that...she ends up stabbing him with scissors...if anyone remembers what that story was (I can't recall off the top of my head), please PM me or put it in your review.**

**[ETA... The 'Mrs. Hughes Stabs Mr. Green with scissors story is 'You Can Trust Me' by Happyheart2. Check it out if you want to see empowered Elsie.]**

**Have a good weekend. I may get to post something, but I can't guarantee.**


	25. Facing the Truth

**AN/ A long wait deserves a long chapter. There were so many thoughtful comments on the last chapter, I'm still replying to them though many of the points raised are addressed below.**

**Mrs. Hughes has her say…**

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Mrs. Hughes fled from the boot room with his last words ringing in her ears. _'I wish you'd given me the chance to help you.'_

It hurt her to hear the helplessness in his voice. What was more, she knew exactly how he felt. She'd felt powerless and useless for over a year; ever since the night she found Anna cowering in the corner of her sitting room.

_ 'No one else must ever know!'_

Faced with a battered and distraught Anna, Mrs. Hughes had reluctantly promised to keep Anna's secret. She'd broken that faith twice, but with good cause both times. There were so many times Mrs. Hughes had wanted to tell Mr. Carson the truth, but her reason would not have been to help Anna as it had been when she confessed to Mr. Bates and Lady Mary. She'd wanted to tell him out of her selfish need to share her burden, to hear him tell her that she'd done the right thing. He would have blustered and railed and insisted they tell the authorities, but she was confident she could have calmed him eventually.

When the police started coming around and asking their questions, Mrs. Hughes was relieved that she had not confided in Mr. Carson. Asking him to lie was a useless business. His misguided trust in authority would have subjected Anna to public ridicule. No, it had all been for the best, she was certain.

"Goodness, you almost ran me clean over!" Mrs. Patmore exclaimed.

The near collision jolted Mrs. Hughes out of her thoughts. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Patmore. I was just headed upstairs to change."

"Why do you need to change?"

"I found a tear in this dress."

"Where? It seems fine to me," Mrs. Patmore asked in confusion. Mrs. Hughes was flushed and acting very strangely.

"I can feel a seam going just here." Mrs. Hughes gestured vaguely at the left arm of her dress. "If you'll excuse me…"

She rushed up the stairs before her friend could delve any further. In the cloistered safety of her room, Mrs. Hughes quickly stripped off the perfectly intact dress. Without a pause she climbed, corset and all, into her bed. _Just five minutes, _she told herself, hugging the bedclothes tightly around her. Just five minutes to compose herself.

It was a habit from her earliest days in service as a young girl. Being in a new place, surrounded by new people she'd often longed for the warmth and comfort of her family. Laying in bed she would remember her mother's comforting voice as she tucked Elsie and Becky into bed. Their Mam would make the blankets snug around her daughters as she hummed a lullaby, told them they were loved, and kissed them goodnight. To a young Elsie, warm blankets, even in a strange house, were like a hug from her mother. It was the only physical comfort she allowed herself in a world where physical contact was all but forbidden.

She felt the bed grow warmer as she lay there, but it wasn't her mother's hug that she thought of now. Her thoughts returned to the boot room and the memory of Mr. Carson holding her roughly but gently in his arms. His hand covered her mouth. She could taste his skin, feel his warmth. They were so close; closer than they'd ever been. She could feel his labored breath after he'd removed his hand from her mouth.

_So close,_ she thought, _but still separated by secrets. My secrets._ Her deceptions surrounded her and insulated her from him. She'd done what she'd felt was right. She'd done what she had to do. Could he ever understand? Would she lose him because of it? Would he still want to marry her now that he thought she didn't trust him?

These doubts grew in strength, threatening to overwhelm her, but then she remembered his eyes as he'd leaned over her. They'd been full of tears and love exactly as they had been just two nights ago when he'd asked her to marry him. She relaxed in the warm bed, in his surrogate embrace. He would calm down once the initial shock was past. Mr. Carson was a just man at heart and she would make himsee her point of view eventually. He would probably want to apologize when he did, and she would let him. Then, she could explain things to him, tell him what he didn't yet know. He would come to understand why she had done what she had done. They could make this right. Their love would be enough. The only question was, how long would it take?

-00-

Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes were both quiet through dinner, not that any of the staff noticed. Mrs. Hughes was neither cold nor warm towards Mr. Carson as they were both seated.

Mr. Carson served out the stew and passed it down the table as calmly as ever though his insides were all a jumble. He did not even risk an exploratory smile in Mrs. Hughes' direction to see how it was received. It was too dangerous to have any such exchange in the sight of the staff. If she smiled back, he would be unable to hide his relief. If she rejected him, he would be unable to hide his misery. So he artfully avoided looking at her and spent most of dinner talking with Mr. Molesley.

Mrs. Patmore watched her two friends and thought they were doing too thorough a job of hiding their secret from everyone. People would get suspicious if the two stopped talking altogether. She felt privileged to be the only one who knew about the new understanding between the heads of staff. She felt very protective of them. She thought she'd help them out by trying to make conversation around them feel more natural.

"Were you able to mend your dress, Mrs. Hughes?" Mrs. Patmore asked conversationally from the kitchen doorway.

"Yes, Mrs. Patmore, it was only a loose seam after all," Mrs. Hughes answered, shooting daggers at the cook with her eyes. A confused Mrs. Patmore retreated to her kitchen.

Mr. Carson looked at Mrs. Hughes closely for the first time. She had indeed changed her dress since earlier. Had he damaged her dress with his ridiculous display in the boot room? Mr. Carson was mortified. He hadn't meant to be so rough. He turned his attentions to his stew, feeling like a first class heel. He had to apologize to her tonight. He was truly contrite, but most importantly, he had no intention of letting his reactionary petulance interfere with his plans for tomorrow.

-00-

Mrs. Hughes rushed through the household accounts that evening, hoping to escape upstairs before the chance of an awkward exchange with Mr. Carson. Unfortunately, her haste had caused her to make several uncharacteristic mistakes. As she was struggling to track them down and reconcile them, she heard his knock on the jamb of her half open door. She closed her eyes and prayed for strength. If he'd come to renew the argument, she had no stomach for that. If he'd come to do anything but apologize, she feared she would not have the patience.

When she did not turn around immediately, Mr. Carson cleared his throat and knocked again. Unable to pretend she had not heard him, she did swivel her chair to face him. His posture was penitent. He stood with his hands behind his back and his head slightly bowed.

"Are you available, Mrs. Hughes?" He hovered in the doorway, in no way assured of receiving an invitation.

"I was about to turn in for the night, Mr. Carson," she answered coolly.

"It's not yet gone ten," he observed gently. "And there is something I should like to discuss with you, if you are amenable."

"That depends upon what you wish to discuss, Mr. Carson," she replied. She was determined not to argue again tonight. It was best to let the disagreement settle a little before continuing.

"I've come to apologize," he answered. "I've brought wine."

He brought the decanter and glasses around from behind his back and held them up like an offering of peace. Mrs. Hughes' last ounce of resistance evaporated. This would not be an easy conversation, but it helped to know that he was prepared to apologize. And the wine didn't hurt either.

"My decision may depend upon the wine," she teased lightly.

"This is a light claret from my own collection," he informed her proudly. _This wasn't left over from the family dinner_, he was telling her. _I opened this especially for you._ "It's very serviceable, if not too dear."

"I shall be the judge of that." She nodded for him to join her.

"We'll make a wine snob of you yet, Mrs. Hughes." A small, hopeful smile flickered across his lips. He'd achieved the first step of his plan of action; get her to listen to him. He poured two small glasses of wine and handed her one before sitting down in the chair nearest her. He fiddled with his own glass before finally setting it aside without taking even a sip.

"I can't say enough how sorry I am for how I acted today, Mrs. Hughes," he began. "I was a bit of an ass."

"Now don't go selling yourself short, Mr. Carson," she quipped, hoping to keep the tenor of the conversation as light as possible.

Mr. Carson took the teasing as a good sign. She might not be willing to let him off easily, but she was clearly willing to forgive him if he played his cards right. "Yes, thank you for noticing. The fact is I've been a complete and utter ass."

"I've never known you to do anything by halves."

"I'm sorry," he repeated, dropping the teasing tone.

"That's a start," she approved.

"My words and actions earlier were uncalled for. I acted out of injured pride. I didn't mean what I said about not trusting you," he said earnestly. "Of course I trust you, Mrs. Hughes. I should not have said otherwise. I would trust you with my life. Indeed, I've long trusted you with something far more precious; the wellbeing of everyone under this roof."

Mrs. Hughes could tell that there was more to his apology. She waited patiently for him to continue.

"I've never had cause to doubt that trust." Her skeptical scowl reminded him that this wasn't entirely true. "Not when I've taken the time to properly consider the facts, which I didn't do today."

Mrs. Hughes became impassive once more.

"I'd suspected some things about Anna and Mr. Green, but to have them confirmed and then to learn…" Mr. Carson pulled his chair towards her eagerly as if being those extra few inches closer would convince her of his sincerity. His hands were clasped in front of him in a pleading pose.

"I should never have grabbed you like that. Did I hurt you? Did I damage your dress? Mrs. Patmore said…"

"I only told Mrs. Patmore that my dress was torn so I could have a few moments to myself," Mrs. Hughes calmly stopped his panicked rush of words. "You did not hurt me. Though you certainly made your point about my actions were foolish."

"I should not have said 'foolish'. You are the wisest person I know, Mrs. Hughes, and the strongest. I'm sure you felt confident confronting him," Mr. Carson spoke hesitantly, hoping she would understand his concern. "But Anna is nearly as strong as you and look what that monster managed to do to her. Sometimes brute force is too much even for true fortitude."

His brow furrowed deeply as dark thoughts of Mrs. Hughes and Anna in danger filled his mind. He fought back the disturbing images to finish his apology.

"I still contend that what you did was reckless, but it was also incredibly brave. I overreacted to something that might have happened but didn't. It was over a year ago and the fact of the matter is that you weren't hurt. _Thank God_." This last was added in a barely audible whisper. "It is not my place to judge your actions in this, Mrs. Hughes. Please forgive my impertinence. Please forgive me."

"Your words did upset me, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Hughes admitted. "But the truth is there's very little that pertains to this subject that doesn't upset me."

"But you forgive me?" He pressed.

"I forgive you, Mr. Carson." She placed a hand on his wrist.

"Thank you."

"Now I would ask your forgiveness in return."

"But there is nothing for me to forgive," he protested.

"I disagree. I kept you in the dark about something that greatly affected this house," Mrs. Hughes owned. "This may lead you to believe that I didn't trust you or that I didn't need your help. Nothing could be further from the truth. I want you to know that. I wanted to tell you, but Anna made me promise to tell no one."

Mrs. Hughes' looked to her right, to the spot where she'd found Anna cowering in pain, fear and confusion on that fateful night. "She was hysterical when I found her. She was terrified for anyone to know what had happened to her. She only told me because she needed my help. If she could have run off to her cottage unmissed, she would never have told anyone."

Mrs. Hughes' voice trembled with emotion. She could not bring herself to tell him of Anna's talk of suicide or of the horrid wait for confirmation that Anna had not been impregnated during the attack. Even without knowing this, it was clear to Mr. Carson that the memory was still painful and raw after all this time.

_It's a wound_, Mr. Carson thought, remembering her words to him. '_An open wound that would be better off stitched up and allowed to heal'. _Could he help her to heal as she'd once helped him?

"I had to tell Mr. Bates when he threatened to leave Anna…"

"He _what?_" Mr. Carson asked in dismay. How could Mr. Bates have entertained the notion of abandoning his wife?

"She'd been pushing him away and he didn't know why," she explained. "He said he would leave Downton if I didn't tell him what I knew."

"He shouldn't have done that," Mr. Carson frowned. He thought it very hard that Mr. Bates would bully Mrs. Hughes into breaking her word like that. Though it must have been frustrating to see Anna drawing away from him, Mr. Bates should not have drawn Mrs. Hughes into his marital problems in Mr. Carson's opinion. Of course, it was much more complex than that, he reminded himself.

Mrs. Hughes was touched by the indignant anger she saw flash in Mr. Carson's deep eyes. They'd all been in an impossible situation, so she hadn't blamed Mr. Bates for wanting the truth by any means. Still, Mrs. Hughes was gratified to see Mr. Carson blame Mr. Bates on her behalf.

"Is Mr. Bates the only one you told?"

Mrs. Hughes shook her head. "Lady Mary had to know the truth so she could persuade Lord Grantham to take Mr. Barrow to America rather than Mr. Bates."

"_That's _why!" Mr. Carson exclaimed, almost slapping his forehead at the obvious explanation. Some of the last pieces of the puzzle were falling into place for him. "But when Sergeant Willis came around asking questions, didn't you and Anna discuss telling him the truth?"

"No. I doubt either of us ever seriously considered it," Mrs. Hughes confessed. "I told the truth on the stand during Mr. Bates' first trial and look how that turned out." It had taken Anna months to forgive Mrs. Hughes for her role in Mr. Bates' conviction.

"The authorities don't care about hearing the truth, Mr. Carson. They only care about twisting it until they can clear a case off their desk. Even if that means sending innocent people to prison."

Mr. Carson wasn't sure he agreed with that, but he could see how Mrs. Hughes, Mr. Bates and Anna would all believe it to be so. He could only imagine what Mrs. Hughes had endured as she'd watched a hangman's noose slowly tighten around Anna and Mr. Bates.

"Now do you understand, Mr. Carson?"

He nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

"Do you forgive me?"

"There is still nothing to be forgiven," he said earnestly. "You had no other choice but to do what you did."

"You're not upset that I didn't tell you the truth; that I didn't give you the opportunity to help?" She wondered. "You said that butlers have ways of dealing with men like Green. Do you think you could have done something to stop Green?"

"I don't know if I could have stopped him, but I would have tried," Mr. Carson admitted. He briefly considered mentioning his idea of framing Green for theft, but he decided thatnthe knowledge would not help Mrs. Hughes heal. "You saw how I handled the news today. If I'd found out the truth at the time, likely I would only have made things worse."

"I don't think that's likely, or even possible," Mrs. Hughes noted. "But thank you for saying so."

"What bothers me most is that you had to do everything on your own. You shouldn't have had to face all of that alone," he growled, angry with himself. "I can't imagine how you must have suffered."

"My suffering was nothing to Anna's," Mrs. Hughes protested, though she did not deny that she had indeed suffered.

"But she had you and Mr. Bates and Lady Mary to support her," Mr. Carson argued. "Who supported you?"

"You did; even if you didn't know it," she assured him. "Our evenings together, our talks over sherry and tea were very important to me. They helped me remember that I was still useful to this house even if I couldn't save Anna. You helped me very much."

"Not as much as I should have," Mr. Carson's scowl deepened and his head dropped as he thought of how he'd failed her. "You even asked for help in your own way. When you spoke of a sorrows and shadows, that's what you were doing, isn't it? And I only offered empty platitudes about taking courage and traveling in hope."

"But the empty platitudes helped, Mr. Carson, because they were from you," she informed him gently. "Just knowing that I could turn to you whenever I needed to was a comfort.

"We'll have no regrets here, Mr. Carson, I forbid it," she ordered in a forceful voice.

She placed a hand under his chin and lifted his gaze to hers. He stared at her beautifully determined face and managed a sad smile. It pained him to think of all she had endured in the last year and more. It was still hard for him to accept how close Mrs. Hughes had probably come to being that man's victim as well, but she was right; the past was the past. He would not help her by wallowing in guilt over things he could no longer change. What mattered now was their future.

"Very well; no regrets," he promised her intently. "But what if that horrid Inspector Vyner returns? I'll lie to him if you like, but I'm not very good at it."

"He's done interviewing you, Mr. Carson. He doesn't think you know anything."

"And he used to be right," he commented wryly.

"I'm sure we'll come up with a plan together if it comes to that," she declared with sincere hope. She really did think they might be able to help Anna now that she could discuss things freely with Mr. Carson.

"Together," Mr. Carson repeated. "You will never have to face anything like this alone again. I swear it, Elsie." He hadn't intended to use her Christian name, but the moment felt too intimate for anything else.

His words were exactly what she needed to hear. "Oh, Charles, thank you," Elsie cried. Without thinking, she lunged forward and wrapped her arms around his neck as he sat back, stunned by her reaction. He recovered enough to bring his arms up and embrace her as he remained seated and she leaned into his arms. The posture was awkward but neither of them wanted to let go. She was half standing and half in his lap. Elsie considered sitting on his knee, but before she could, Charles stood up. She was afraid he was pushing her away, but he wasn't. They each adjusted their grip without letting go completely. Her arms settle naturally around his middle. She pressed her cheek to his cool, starched shirt front. His arms surrounded her like a warm blanket of safety and love.

They stood together in her sitting room like a great pillar supporting the foundation of the castle as the house slept above them.

She breathed a long, contented sigh. He uttered one self-satisfied chuckle in response. They continued to stand, holding onto each other.

"I love you, Charles," she said the silence reached its natural end.

"And I love you, Elsie," he whispered into her hair.

"This is highly improper, Charles," she teased. Oh, how she loved saying his name.

"Highly improper, indeed, Elsie," he replied but did not move. Nor did she. Both of them were afraid to break this new intimacy.

She felt his thumb leisurely rubbing the collar of her dress at the nape of her neck. Her right index finger was tracing lazy circles on his back. Elsie felt a heat growing between them caused by the minute friction of these tiny actions.

"We should turn in," Charles said, sounding extremely unenthused by the idea.

"Mmhmm," she agreed with both his words and his reluctance.

"I don't know about you, Mrs. Hughes, but tomorrow is a big day for me," he joked, dropping his hands slowly from around her. The formal name was back, along with the safe strictures of propriety.

Following his lead, Elsie released her grip on him, stepped back and looked up at him. "Do you now?"

"_I_ am going to escort _my _fiancé on a tour of _our_ house," he beamed proudly. "And Mrs. Patmore is packing a lunch befitting the occasion," he added excitedly as he opened her door and headed for the hallway. They would deal with the wine glasses in the morning.

"I can't tell which you are more excited about, Mr. Carson; the fiancé or the food?" She chided kindly as she followed.

"I'm insulted, Mrs. Hughes," he gasped melodramatically. He spun to face her and held his hand over his heart as if wounded.

"Well?" She laughed at his theatrics.

"I refuse to dignify that accusation with a response."

"Luckily for you, the two are not mutually exclusive." She turned off the light in her office.

"Yes, very lucky for me."

They both laughed lightly as they climbed the stairs. As their ways parted for the evening Mr. Carson watched her begin to climb up the women's stairs. She stopped midway and turned to whisper, "Good night, Mr. Carson."

"Good night, Mrs. Hughes," he answered. "I'll see you tomorrow."

_Daft man, of course you'll see me tomorrow,_ she thought, though she knew to what he was referring. "I'm looking forward to it."

TBC…

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**AN/ All the wonderful reviews gave me a lot to think about for this chapter. I hope you find their speedy resolution possible (if not exactly likely). Honestly, I think Carson will completely get his knickers in a bunch over her lying to him or he will literally not bat an eye. It could go either way. He's hot or cold, our Charles. His response to her telling him about Becky gives me hope that he's willing to forgive her just about anything because of how much he loves her.**

**One review pointed out that it sounded like I was blaming Anna for not reporting her rape to authorities initially. Let me clarify that I don't blame her in the least. Even in our 'enlightened' age, rape is difficult to prosecute and prove. The victim is often victimized anew in public opinion. My gripe is that when a Scotland Yard Inspector tells you that there have been other victims who have come forward (reluctantly), you need to fess up and say, 'yes, that happened to me too'. Part of the reason she didn't do that is because she believed her husband to be a cold-blooded killer. I have a problem with that. **

**Due to their past experiences with false accusations I understand their motivations, but I think Anna, Bates and Hughes (and Mary) all made very destructive decisions as a result of their misguided attempts to protect Anna (and Mr. Bates). The inspector KNOWS they are lying to him. He knows they are all trying to cover something up. He assumes it's because of their guilt over the murder, not the shame over the rape and their distrust of the legal system. The other women who were attacked weren't arrested, only Anna. That tells me something.**

**FYI, I've updated the last installment with this info, but wanted to be sure that folks know that the story I mentioned in the last chapter's AN, where Mrs. Hughes finally does confront Green with a pair of scissors, is 'You Can Trust Me' by Happyheart2. Check it out for some thrills and an empowered Elsie moment!**

**2 More Chapters! (I am officially adding this to every chapter I write from here on…)**


	26. You Kiss By The Book

They were alone, finally, at last, blissfully alone in _their_ house. Charles counted in his head the doors and the miles that stood between them and the nearest soul who might interrupt them. The reality of their isolation almost overwhelmed him. Could he remain a gentleman in the face of such temptation?

Her lips tasted even more wonderful than he'd imagined. They didn't taste of the apple cider they'd just shared, but of a richer sweetness. Her tongue rolled against his as if she were softly saying his name, caressing the consonants with her trilling brogue. He was lost in the depths of her breath.

It was impossible to know whose hands began to wander first, but wander they did. From his chest, her fingers crawled up his strong neck and into his hair. His hands dropped from her corseted waist to her round, firm derriere. Afraid that he was crossing a line, Charles moved his hands back to her waist and tried to pull away. Elsie emitted a tiny whimper of protest and dug her nails into his scalp insistently but not painfully.

When they broke apart he looked lovingly down at her. Her arms were still reaching up towards him. The light surrounding the two isolated lovers was golden. She wore a circlet of spring flowers in her hair which flowed down over her shoulders in velvety auburn tresses. Her dress was light silk and her corset was gone. She was a vision; a dream.

_Only a dream_, he realized with disappointment. But as she continued to gaze longingly up at him, Charles remembered that dreams have at least one advantage over reality. He didn't need to remain a gentleman in his dreams.

Since she was costumed as Juliet, Charles decided to play the part of Romeo.

"Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged," he breathed huskily.

"Then have my lips the sin that they have took?" His Elsie/Juliet inquired exactly as he knew she would.

"Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again!"

He enthusiastically dove back towards her waiting mouth. Unencumbered by the proprieties of the waking world, Charles grew bolder. Soon, he was cupping one of her breasts, mesmerized by how perfectly it fit into his large hand. His lips wandered from hers and descended towards her neck and lower.

"You kiss by th' book," she panted.

"You can drop the Shakespeare, lass," he grunted as he felt his hunger for her growing exponentially by the second. This fantasy was no longer about the niceties of courtship.

There was a large, canopied bed in the room. _Because, why not?_ He laughed to himself. _It's a dream._

She weighed nothing and his back and legs felt no strain as he swept her into his arms. He lay her gently in the soft, almost fluid, silk of the bedding. Just before her joined her, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Looking up, he was astonished to find himself face to face with Mr. Carson.

"That's far enough, Charlie boy," the grim faced butler warned.

"It's just a dream, Mr. Carson," the would-be Romeo argued.

"I'll not let you disrespect the woman we love, even in a dream," Mr. Carson insisted. "Or are you such a randy old goat that you can't wait four weeks?"

"But…" the eager lover protested. He looked down at the willing, wanton woman beneath him with lustful greed.

"That's not our Elsie," Mr. Carson said with a sad, almost wistful sigh. "She's waited just as long as we have, Charlie. Just wait a few more weeks and this can be something real."

"I can't even win an argument with myself," Charles groaned and rolled away from the siren in the sheets. He knew that Mr. Carson was correct.

"I'm sorry, lass," Charles muttered. The butler nodded satisfactorily and began to walk away.

The walls around them dissolved and the bed became a blanket in a field of grass under a summer sky.

"Try one of these," Elsie urged and pressed a strawberry to his lips. He was reclining and she sat beside him wearing a lovely and tasteful skirt and blouse. She was still beautiful, but she was no longer dressed like or acting like an immodest woman. She was his Elsie again.

He bit down on the offered strawberry and felt juice slide down his chin. She quickly wiped it away with her thumb before popping the remainder of the strawberry in her mouth. It was simultaneously innocent and sensuous. Charles sighed, knowing he must be content to watch for now. He didn't want that annoying butler to show up again.

"I'm so happy, Charles," she smiled down at him with transparent joy. Her tongue fondled his name behind her lovely teeth and tempting lips. He noticed that she was wearing a wedding band.

"As am I, love," he answered with an honestly contented sigh. "As am I."

-00-

When morning finally broke, Charles Carson reluctantly left his chaste picnic with his beautiful wife behind. Unfortunately, a potentially problematic effect from his dream lingered into the waking world.

_It will go away by the time I'm dressed and ready,_ Mr. Carson told himself as he started his morning routine. However, the problem was still very much present as he combed pomade into his hair.

_Damn and blast,_ he cursed himself. He looked at his watch. He was due downstairs in less than five minutes. Mr. Carson was beginning to panic. This was not something he could keep hidden from the scrutiny of the staff. There was only one solution. It was distasteful to him, but he had to fix his problem or risk giving away Mrs. Hughes and his secret.

The only way to get that ridiculous smile off his face was to be a grouch to everyone he met this morning. That would serve the dual purpose of hiding his merry mood and scaring away prying eyes. With all the wild fluctuations in temperament he'd had over the past few days, the staff must rightfully think him mad. It would be a great relief to admit the truth after Mr. Branson's departure.

As Mr. Carson arrived at table, he mumbled something about being very busy. He grumbled his way through a quick breakfast, studiously avoiding speaking to anyone, especially Mrs. Hughes. He made his apologies and escaped upstairs as soon as he could. Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore exchanged puzzled looks.

"I think he's becoming unhinged," Mrs. Patmore whispered to Mrs. Hughes as she followed her into the housekeeper's sitting room.

"He isn't very good at keeping secrets," Mrs. Hughes defended her man.

"Isn't that the understatement of the year?" Mrs. Patmore chuckled and scampered off to check on the kitchen maids preparations for luncheon. She also had a picnic to pack, which she planned to do personally.

-00-

The door to his pantry was closed which was odd for the hour. He'd just returned downstairs from family breakfast and usually kept his door open for general household business until servant's luncheon.

Mrs. Hughes knocked and entered. Mr. Carson peered at her from over his wine ledger; a pair of stormy eyes and menacing eyebrows.

"Oh, it's you," he said with relief and lowered the book. The smile on his face transformed the formerly threatening glare into a loving gaze.

"Mrs. Patmore said you growled at Andy," Mrs. Hughes accused him as she shut the door behind her.

"I might have done," he admitted. "But it was a grunt, not a growl."

"She said growl," Mrs. Hughes teased, enjoying arguing semantics with him on such a silly subject.

"She wasn't there," Mr. Carson insisted stubbornly but continued to grin.

"Be it a grunt of a growl, it's unacceptable," she chided kindly.

"I've no wish to be so surly, Mrs. Hughes, but Mr. Molesley caught me coming down from family breakfast."

"Caught you?"

"With this fool grin on my face." He gestured infuriatingly towards his visage which she had to admit could only be described as a 'fool grin'. "I didn't see him until he commented that I was in a fine mood today and asked why I was smiling so."

"So you grunted at him?"

"What was I to tell him?" Mr. Carson asked in desperation. "That I'm in love and so insanely happy that I can't stop smiling like an idiot?"

"Is that why you've been hiding?" Mrs. Hughes laughed.

Mr. Carson nodded. "It isn't fair," he pouted briefly before his smile returned. "If you show up to breakfast with a smile on your face, no one thinks anything of it. But if I show any sign of a good mood, it's met with nothing but suspicion."

"I doubt Mr. Molesley was suspicious. I'm sure he was just trying to be friendly."

"Well who asked him to be?" Even through his exasperated frown, the ghost of a smile still lingered on Mr. Carson's face.

Mrs. Hughes understood Mr. Carson's frustration. It wasn't fair that he couldn't be in a good mood without the staff commenting on it. Even if Mr. Molesley wasn't suspicious, Mr. Barrow certainly would be.

It was largely Mr. Carson's fault, but he was hardly to blame. Mr. Carson had cultivated a stern persona in order to maintain discipline in the staff. It was necessary, but it kept the staff from seeing him as he truly was. Sometimes Mrs. Hughes felt sorry for the staff that they could not know the real Charles Carson. Usually, she felt privileged to be one of the few who did.

"I've been thinking, Mr. Carson," she began cautiously. "Perhaps we should tell the family about our understanding sooner rather than later."

"You don't think that would be disruptive?" Mr. Carson asked, obviously liking her idea but fearing the inconvenience it would cause.

"No more so than you abusing the footmen for the next week," Mrs. Hughes teased. "It's either that, or you'll have to fake an illness until Mr. Branson leaves."

"Don't think I didn't consider it, but there's too much work to be done," he joked back. "Do you really think we should?"

"Lady Mary already suspects and I wouldn't mind being able to accept Mr. Branson's congratulations in person."

Mr. Carson nodded in agreement. "We can tell them at tea," he declared, clearly relieved to have a plan.

"And let the chips fall where they may," Mrs. Hughes approved. "What time should we leave to catch the bus?"

"I'm ready whenever you are," Mr. Carson answered. "I doubt anyone else will be brave enough to venture a visit this morning."

"I need ten minutes to give some instructions to Madge and then we can go," Mrs. Hughes said as she started to leave. "Try not to assault a footman while you wait."

He chuckled to himself and hid his face behind the wine ledger until the door closed behind her.

Eight minutes later, the two heads of staff left Downton Abbey with their heavy picnic hamper and a pair of matching fool grins.

TBC…

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**AN/ Spring break is here! Sorry for the long delay, but it was a long weekend of yard work and egg hunting. This wasn't THE Kiss, but I felt like we needed A kiss.**


	27. A Rose By Any Other Name

**AN/ I promise that this update was mostly written when I happened on a certain discussion on Tumblr. I'll explain more at the end…**

* * *

Mrs. Hughes watched the smiling butler as he walked beside her. She'd never seen him this merry. She wasn't sure she'd ever seen anyone this merry.

"Tell me, Mr. Carson, how was it you were able to hide your smile from the family at breakfast?"

"That was easy. I only have one expression when I'm with the family."

"Your butler mask?"

"You may call it that if you will," he shrugged. "Only Lady Mary would be likely to notice anything amiss even through the mask, but she wasn't at breakfast. No, it's when I have to interact with the staff that my emotions are harder to hide."

It hadn't always been so, he mused. _Or maybe I didn't have any emotions to hide until recently._ Regardless, it was certain that Mrs. Hughes had slowly, methodically chipped away at his mask, for which he was grateful.

They reached the village and conversation died. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes could not risk the chance of being overheard by someone they knew if they spoke of the things they wanted most to discuss. Neither was in the mood for inane chatter. Blessedly, neither of them was afraid of silence. They waited for the bus under the broad branches of the great tree in the Downton commons and gazed across at the war memorial. Their eyes were drawn to William's name, though it was illegible from this distance. They did not need to read it. They both knew exactly where it was on the stone. In fact, Mr. Carson knew the location of every name on the memorial after hours of debating the order with his committee.

Staring at the marble plinth, Mr. Carson contemplated how his time on the committee had played a part in opening up his relationship with Mrs. Hughes. Serving on the committee had been Mr. Carson's first solo foray into life beyond the Abbey in decades. His role as butler gave him status, but on the committee he had been valued for more than his ability to polish silver and serve tea. Though he somehow always ended up having to make Mrs. Wigan's tea, he remembered wryly.

When he was debating heading the committee, Mrs. Hughes had asked Mr. Carson what he was afraid of. He'd tried to explain about how the very offer had undermined the authority of the Lord of the manor. He'd tried to make her sensitive to the erosion of a way of life, a transition from tradition to the anarchy. She'd allayed the fears he'd confessed to and had encouraged him, but she hadn't know all of his fears.

How could he tell her that he was afraid to find out who Charles Carson was beyond the walls of Downton Abbey? Could he command as much respect in his grey suit as he did in his livery? Would he look like a posturing fool when faced with compromising with equals rather than commanding underlings?

Fortunately, he'd worn the mantle of leadership naturally, as she no doubt knew he would. There had been disagreements between the members, of course, but he'd lead them through the minefield unscathed with a fair and steady hand. They had not experienced open hostilities nor had there been a falling out as had happened on some committees of which he'd heard tell.

Serving on the committee had given him confidence that his usefulness was not limited to his role in service. Mr. Carson had learned a great deal by serving as chairman for the memorial committee, but the most important thing he learned was that he could be a contributing member of a community whether he was butler or not.

He had Mrs. Hughes to thank for this revelation. Without her encouraging nudge he would have turned down the appointment using fear of injuring Lord Grantham's pride as his excuse to remain safely behind the Abbey walls.

"I wish you could have had your garden," Mrs. Hughes said, jarring him from his thoughts. "But it just wasn't practical."

"I know," he sighed. "This was the right choice in the end, but it didn't hurt to start out with grander plans."

"Not so long as one is willing to be convinced," she smiled at him and patted the arm over which the hamper was slung.

"I never properly expressed my gratitude for your support during that time," Mr. Carson said after making sure they could not be overheard.

"You'll find a way," she flirted.

The arrival of the bus cut off any response he might have offered, but it didn't matter because he had no response to offer.

-00-

"Is that Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes?" Lord Grantham asked in astonishment.

Standing outside The Grantham Arms, both Tom and Mary had seen the pair arrive at the commons, but Lord Grantham had been engrossed in a conversation with a tenant about a new litter of puppies.

"It appears to be," Mary said dismissively, hoping her father would drop the subject.

"Whatever are they doing?" The Earl persisted as he watched Mrs. Hughes touch Mr. Carson's arm. "They look like they're going on a picnic."

"Anna mentioned that Mr. Carson has purchased a house," Mary said with complete honesty. She'd wrung the information out of Anna just yesterday. "Perhaps they are visiting it. I'm sure he'd welcome her opinion on things."

"I'm sure that's it," Tom chimed in.

"I didn't know Mr. Carson had bought a house. We should speak to them." Lord Grantham started to walk in their direction.

"Oh, but look, there's the bus now," Tom exclaimed. He and Mary exchanged a relieved look.

"They look rather chummy, don't they?" Lord Grantham commented as Mr. Carson helped Mrs. Hughes onto the bus and climbed up beside her. The butler sat directly next to the housekeeper and set the food hamper beside him when the Earl thought it would be more appropriate to but the basket between the two.

"It's Carson and Mrs. Hughes, Papa," Mary shrugged, as if that explained everything.

"You can speak to Carson about it later, Papa," Mary urged, hoping her father would forget the matter by the time he saw Carson next. "What was Mr. Barnes saying about the puppies? Are they old enough to leave their mother yet?"

"Not yet, but I might pay them a visit at Breeder's Wood next week," Lord Grantham said excitedly, moving on from the mystery of the butler and housekeeper. "Just to see if there's a promising one in the bunch."

-00-

The couple sat in the back row of the bus, oblivious that they'd been espied. Only two other seats on the bus were occupied so they felt safe conversing on more personal topics than earlier.

"Are you excited to see the house, Mrs. Hughes?" Mr. Carson asked.

"I've seen it before, Mr. Carson," she reminded him. He was obviously disappointed by her answer so she risked nudging him with her shoulder as she added, "But, yes, I'm very excited, because it's ours now."

"Ours," he repeated proudly.

"I hope you don't think me too bold, Mr. Carson, but I was hoping we might use our Christian names today," she suggested meekly. "It was so nice to do so last night."

"It was nice, but it wasn't my favorite thing about last night," Charles answered cheekily.

"Nor mine, but it's all we dare do in public," she said with a blush.

He leaned back to regard her properly. The flush of her cheeks could have been attributed to the crisp weather, but he like to think it had something to do with him. "Is that a new hat you're wearing, Elsie?" He pronounced the sibilant part of her name as a low buzz.

"No, Charles," she responded, drawing out the first syllable of his name slightly in order to let her Scottish brogue wrap around it.

They exchanged waggish smirks.

"Perhaps, Elsie, that is a new blouse?" He continued the game.

She shook her head at his silliness. "Not especially new, Charles."

"I am convinced that something is new, Elsie. You must tell me what it is."

"Nothing is new, Charles; except, perhaps, that you are now permitted to observe me more closely."

"A privilege for which I am very grateful," he said in a low, intimate voice. "Am I also permitted to say how beautiful you look today, Elsie?"

"I'm not sure, Charles. I depend upon you to know the rules in such matters," she joked to cover how flustered she was by his flattery.

"I'm not sure there are rules."

"I thought you believed that everything has rules."

"Apparently not everything. I fear we must make it up as we go along, Elsie." He placed his hand over hers on the bench between them.

"You know, Elsie isn't my real name," she informed him and watched for his reaction.

"Really?" He was genuinely surprised.

"My given name is Elsbeth. Elsie is the name I took up when I started service. I thought Elsbeth sounded too old fashioned."

"Well, you think you know someone…" Charles said with mock astonishment. "Are there any other aliases I should know about, Elsbeth Hughes?"

"I was called Lele when I was a wee lass," Elsbeth confessed. "But Becky is the only one who calls me that now."

"Lele," Charles muttered, trying the name out. He wasn't sure about it. Then, his thoughts became distracted by the image of Elsie as a wee lass.

"I've told you my childhood nickname," Elsie prompted. "Now tell me, what was yours?"

"I didn't have one," Charles answered.

"But what did your family call you when you were a lad?" Elsie asked. "Surely they didn't call you Charles."

"Why shouldn't they call me Charles? That's my name."

She looked at him with a mixture of wonder and pity. He didn't speak about his parents much, but she'd gathered that they were rather formal people. Still, she couldn't imagine anyone calling a tiny child Charles. "I know for a fact that you haven't always been called Charles. Grigg called you Charlie."

"Aye, he did," Charles admitted. "And it annoyed me no end. When he really wanted to get under my skin he'd call me Charlie Boy."

"Oh, I like Charlie Boy," Elsie exclaimed, but then she saw how clearly he hated it. "But I promise not to use it."

"Thank you, Elsie; or do you prefer Elsbeth? Or Lele?"

"Elsie will do, but you don't have to always use my name."

"What do you mean?"

"We might have little forms of endearment for each other; something no one else would dare call us."

"Such as Old Booby?" Charles smirked.

"Exactly," Elsie beamed.

"I'm not sure I like that as a regular title," Charles confessed hesitantly. He didn't want to insult her, but neither did he wish to be called Old Booby for the rest of his life.

"If His Lordship can endure Donk, I think you could get used to Old Booby," Elsie teased. "What would you prefer?"

"I've not given it much thought," Charles admitted. "Something simple, I suppose; Love or Dear seems to work for most people."

"And you want to be like most people?" Elsie asked. Of course he did. "Don't those sound rather boring to you?"

"I don't think they're boring. Not if the sentiment is there to back them up," Charles defended. "What would you suggest?"

"Pet?"

He furrowed his brow in protest.

"Moppet? Precious? My lovely? Cutie Pie?" She started to list. His original frown began to crack into a smile as her suggestions grew more preposterous. "Sweet Cheeks? Iddle Dickems?"

He broke into raucous laughter at that last one. "Iddle Dickems? That's not even a thing!"

"I'm sure I've heard it before," Elsie laughed with him.

"You've almost convinced me. Old Booby is sounding better and better," Charles chuckled.

The bus finally reached their stop and they disembarked. Their easy flirtations and conversation from the trip stalled as the bus pulled away. Their isolation was palpable. They walked wordlessly towards the house. As the distance to the house lessened, their nerves and anticipation grew.

Charles wondered if Elsie would expect him to kiss her as soon as they arrived. Was he to shut the door behind them and grab her immediately? Would she be offended if he did? Would she be disappointed in him if he didn't?

For her part, Elsie had her own fears. Though she was nervous and relatively inexperienced, she'd spoken boldly to him of desiring a kiss. The truth was she hadn't kissed a man passionately since…well, since ever.

_Joe doesn't count,_ she told herself. There had been no passion there, only polite courting with a very little peck at the end of a pleasant evening.

What concerned Elsie most was her own latent passions and how his kiss might unleash them. She wanted to kiss him so badly. She wanted to lace her fingers behind his head and pull his lips to hers. What if, in the heat of the moment, she did exactly that? She might frighten him. What if she returned his affection too aggressively? He might think she was wanton. She knew that he would not think any such thing of her, but she could not shake her irrational doubt.

They walked through their gate and to their door. Charles felt as nervous as he had during his first dinner service when he was a young footman. As he had back then, he controlled his emotions and just managed to keep his hands from shaking. He pulled out the key, attached to the key she'd gifted him for Christmas; a gift chosen and wrapped while she still believed herself excluded from his future here. The thought filled him with admiration and love for the woman beside him.

"You should do the honors," Charles insisted and handed her the key. Elsie knew better than to protest. She turned the key and pushed open the door to their house.

TBC...

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**AN/ Sorry to leave it there, but it was this or nothing until Monday. The fam and I are off to Vancouver, BC today for a long weekend. I hope to catch up with you on Monday, but no promises…**

**Explanation of earlier AN: I don't "Tumble", but I do lurk on chelsiefan71's page. I eavesdropped on a conversation I think was started by mrpoohnminnie, but included deeedeeedeeedeee, kissman, dr-chatelaines as well as chelsiefan71 (all 'tumblr' handles) regarding terms of endearment between our lovelies. Sadly, I could not work 'sugartits' or 'chucklebutts' into the story organically. **

**I'd already decided to have Becky's name for Elsie be 'Lele'. My personal view is that he'd call her 'lass' or 'love' in private moments and she'd call him 'dear' or 'love'. I'd LOVE for her to call him 'my man'. I hope we find out in canon!**

**2 More Chapters (or whatever).**


	28. Tis No Little Thing

Elsie Hughes hesitated for half a breath before she strode confidently through the front door of their house. _Their House!_ The very idea of it still made the strings of her heart resonate with joy.

The front hallway ran the length of the house with doors leading off of it at intervals. Twenty feet along the hallway, it opened up on the right-hand side into a small foyer that accommodated a simple but serviceable stairway. The couple strolled to this break in the door lined walls. Charles followed behind his fiancé at a respectable distance after securing the door. Now that they were inside and the wide world was locked outside, Charles felt a pressure building in his chest. The anticipation was nearly crushing him. She would be wanting her kiss her now.

_Well, not just now,_ he reasoned. She'd probably at least let him set down the food basket. She couldn't expect him to administer a proper kiss with his hands occupied. He clung desperately to the basket as his heart threatened to beat out of his chest. It wasn't that he didn't want to kiss her, quite the contrary, but Charles doubted if it would be a first kiss worthy of the buildup they'd given it.

I should have just kissed her when she asked me to, he scolded himself.

Charles was granted a brief reprieve as Elsie was currently distracted by the house. He watched her eyes dance around the space; lighting equally on the beautifully polished bannister and the cornice that was in want of a touch of paint. Elsie did not linger long at the base of the stairs but moved quickly down the hallway to the door she knew led to the main sitting room.

The room was similar to the sitting room at Crawley House. She knew it was smaller, but it looked larger at the moment, being devoid of furnishings. Even though it was the middle of winter, the light was good in the room. Elsie pivoted to observe the room and chuckled as she saw Charles lingering in the doorway behind her.

"Are you going to follow me around to every room?" Elsie asked him.

"Would you rather I didn't?" Charles asked, unsure of what to do in this situation.

"I must admit, it is a wee bit disconcerting to have you hovering about like that," she said with a kind smile that took any possible sting out of her words.

"I'm sorry, Elsie." Charles shifted nervously, clutching the food hamper even closer.

"I know you're anxious that I approve of everything, Charles, so let me set you at ease on that score." She walked back to him and placed a hand on his arm. He was so tightly wound that he almost jumped at her touch. "I know I'm going to love everything about our house."

"It needs a few updates, but it shouldn't take much to bring it up to snuff," he rambled nervously.

"None of those little details matter, Charles. All I need to know is that it's ours. Whatever changes or touches it needs, we can handle. Together."

Charles coughed to hide the emotions that threatened to escape him. He stared down at the top of the basket where her hand still rested on his arm and willed himself not to cry. Her words meant more to him than he could possibly express.

Elsie saw his struggle and stepped back to give him space. She turned her attention to the fireplace which she inspected closely, not wishing to embarrass him. He was nervous enough as it was. Charles composed himself in short order and gave a little cough to signal that he was recovered.

"I'll take the food down to the kitchen while you look through the remaining rooms," Charles suggested. "You take a first look on your own. Then come join me in the kitchen. We can eat lunch and discuss what you think. After we eat, we can go back through the house together and I promise not to hover."

"You want us to eat in the kitchen?" She looked at him incredulously. "In our own house?"

"It's the only room with a table," he said reasonably.

"But I don't want to dine like a servant for our first meal in our home," Elsie argued calmly.

Charles nodded his understanding. _She said 'Our home',_ he thought happily. "Just come back here when you're done upstairs, Elsie. I'll think of something."

"Thank you, Charles." Elsie gave the sitting room one last, approving glance before leaving to head upstairs. She gave his arm a little tap as she left and a teasing look that said, 'Don't you try to follow me.'

After she left, Charles remained in the sitting room for a while longer, marshaling his chaotic feelings. Eventually, he took the food down the hallway to the kitchen. The kitchen was slightly smaller than the space at Downton and the store room was more of a closet than a room. A large table dominated the kitchen. It was the only furniture left behind by the previous owners. They had considered it too heavy and large to move. A dust cloth covered the table. Charles set the hamper on the counter beside the sink and looked around the kitchen for inspiration. The kitchen was bare, but the store room shelves held several crates. Charles thought those would do quite nicely.

He grabbed three crates and the dust cloth from the table. Back in the sitting room, he assembled a sort of table by setting one crate on its end and covering it with the folded dust cloth. He set the other two crates on end on either side of the makeshift table. It was crude, but Charles was not going to ask Elsie to sit on the floor.

He returned to the kitchen where he quickly unloaded the hamper. He filled the two plates Mrs. Patmore had packed for them with an assortment of meats, cheeses, breads and chutneys from the amply provisioned basket. On one plate Charles put a small helping of everything. The other held only the things he knew she would enjoy. Mrs. Patmore had also sent a small tin plate with a rabbit pie which Charles sliced. He put one slice on each plate. Then, he poured two small glasses of lemonade.

With cutlery and plates balanced in one hand and beverages in the other, Charles brought their meal to the sitting room. After everything was arranged, rearranged and rearranged again, Charles stood by the window and waited. He waited for as long as his idle impatience would allow. He could not hear her moving around upstairs. After what felt like an eternity, Charles went in search of Elsie hoping she would not begrudge his interruption.

He did not have to search long for her. At the top of the stairs he saw one open door along the upstairs hallway. It was the door to the largest bedroom; the room he assumed that they would someday share. The idea of being alone with her in a room which invoked thoughts of their carnal future should have frightened him but he found that his curiosity outweighed his fear. Charles walked silently down the hall until he could peek into the room.

Elsie was standing by the large, double windows that dominated one wall of the bedroom.

"May I join you?" Charles asked, stepping into the room and stopping.

"Of course," she answered without turning. "So long as you don't hover."

"I wouldn't dare," he chuckled but did not move. He wanted to gaze at her a little longer. Charles remembered what Elsie had said earlier on the bus. He was now free to observe her with his eyes and heart open. Charles decided to take advantage of this new right. He tried to memorize the lines of her profile from this angle.

_My God, she is beautiful._ He'd known for years, but now he could fully appreciate all the layers of her magnificence. Hers was not a thin skin of prettiness that time can wear away, but a deep and complex beauty that grows more refined with each passing day. She was as effortlessly majestic as any feat of nature; a flower, a cloud or a windswept moor. Grace came to her so naturally that she was woefully unaware of how lovely she really was. Charles considered it his sacred duty as a husband to never let her forget the truth.

Elsie sensed him hovering, but did not rebuke him for it. She was glad he was taking this moment slowly. For this was The Moment. They both knew it. The room felt charged with electricity. To Elsie, the air felt light and thin like the air at the top of Ben Nevis.

"Such a nice prospect of the garden," she said breathily as she looked out the wide window. Her voice almost sounded normal. Elsie imagined what the garden would look like in the spring when the dormant branches and sleeping bulbs bloomed. "I could get used to this view every morning."

"I was just thinking the same thing," Charles replied suggestively.

The implication of his words caused her heart to flutter and her face to flush. She did not face him, but remained looking out the window. "You can't see the garden from there, daft man," she teased.

"We have a garden?" He joked as he crossed the room in a smooth and fluid motion. His movement stirred up the already charged atmosphere of the room. He felt like he was walking through invisible steam that swirled around him and made his skin feel hot. Elsie broke out in goose bumps as he approached. Charles stopped just behind her, his left shoulder just inches behind her right.

"Now that you've had a look, are you still happy with the house?" He wanted so badly for her to approve of their future home and could not wait for her to volunteer her verdict.

"Happy doesn't even begin to cover it," she answered truthfully. "It's even more perfect than I remember."

"I'm glad." Charles reached out and took her right hand in his. He saw the goosebumps on her arm. "Are you cold? I should have started a fire downstairs."

Elsie shook her head but could not speak. Slowly, Charles lifted her hand to his lips as he stepped forward. Their bodies were touching now, but they still both faced out the window. He'd kissed her hand before, of course, but always at Downton, in a house full of people all apparently hell bent on interrupting them at the most inconvenient moments. Now, they were in a bedroom in an empty house where no one would come looking for them. Her whole body was tingling in anticipation.

He turned her hand over and kissed her palm, letting her fingers curl lightly around his face. He moved his lips down to her wrist, finding a ticklish spot just below her pulse, which was quickening. His left hand rested at her waist, steadying them both. She watched their reflection in the window glass until the delicious sensation of his attentions forced her to close her eyes. Her fingers burrowed into the hair behind his ear and pulled him towards her. She tilted her head to offer him the side of her neck and he accepted the offering gladly.

Elsie felt his warm breath stir the loose hairs on the back of her neck a moment before his lips brushed the side of her neck. He placed a series of slow, reverend kisses along the vulnerable flesh. Pangs of desire assaulted her. She ached with longing in places that she'd never known could feel anything; either pleasure or pain. Now she knew they could feel both. Deep within her, dormant instincts groaned in their sleep. She thought again of the slumbering garden. She felt as if something deep inside her was blossoming; awakened by his touch.

She sighed in contentment. Elsie could not believe this was happening. She wasn't even sure it was real, but it had to be. Her dreams were always cut short just before the vital moment. This was the point in all her fantasies when they were interrupted; sometimes by Mr. Molesley, sometimes by Anna, sometimes by Lady Mary and sometimes by Becky.

Charles grunted back his nonverbal answer.

_Or was it a growl?_ She thought and almost began to giggle.

"You smell so wonderful," he growled. It was definitely a growl, she decided. This was becoming very serious, very fast. She needed to slow things down. She chose humor as her weapon.

"You can thank Mrs. Patmore for that," she laughed.

"Your Christmas gift?" In his mind, he could picture her dusting her naked body, fresh from her bath, with the perfumed talc. The image ran counter to his need to control his longing.

"Mmhm. Maybe you should have brought your poetry book," Elsie teased.

"That would have been a terrible mistake," Charles whispered hotly into her ear. His lips continued to leisurely adore her jawline.

His hand that had been running up and down her arm, between her hand that gripped his hair and her elbow, moved to gently caress her face. He turned her towards him and they finally faced one another. His left hand pressed her body flush with his. His right cradled her face with insistent tenderness.

Elsie found herself lost in his eyes. The moment she'd been waiting for had come and all she her mind could focus on was defining the color of his eyes. _Are they brown, hazel, green…? Yes, _she determined. _They are._

She'd read once, in a magazine, that color was not the absolute that people are generally led to believe. The article had even quoted a professor saying that color didn't exist. There were only wavelengths of light that had to be captured by the eye and interpreted in the brain. He claimed that it was impossible to say what one person's green looked like relative to another person's. He'd argued that instead of naming colors in absolute terms, our definition should be more abstract. She'd thought he was full of hogwash when she'd read the article, but now she understood. It didn't matter what color Charles' eyes were; they were the color of safety, the color of belonging, of devotion. At the moment, they were also the color of lust; hers and his.

Charles gazed down at his beloved. Her cheeks and lips were flushed an inviting shade of pink. He lightly brushed the thumb of his right hand over her lips just enough to feel that they were trembling. She took in a startled breath at his touch, which caused her lips to part ever so slightly. Charles saw a flash of her tongue behind those lips and he repressed a moan. He was struggling mightily to control the need which had been building in him all day.

_Not just all day,_ he corrected himself. _This has been building for years; decades._

Charles remembered holding her more fiercely than this a few short days before. Though he was being physically gentler now, he'd trusted his control in the boot room. He would never lose control under the roof of Downton Abbey. He wasn't so certain about maintaining that control in their bedroom. He had to remind himself that they were not yet married.

Charles worried that he might frighten her if he unleashed all the pent up passions of the past twenty years in one go. He certainly frightened himself. His grip on her loosened and he began to draw away. Elsie pressed his hand more firmly against her cheek and shook her head slowly once.

His Elsie was not afraid. His heart swelled with love and admiration for this formidable woman. There was so much he wanted to tell her; sweet words of love he should whisper, oaths of devotion he should swear and prayers of gratitude he should offer. He would tell her everything later. Now was not the time. He knew better than to risk contaminating the purity of the moment with his clumsy words.

She wanted this. He wanted this. Nothing else mattered.

This knowledge gave him courage. His intense stare softened and a small, roguish smile appeared on his lips. His eyelids were heavy and he looked almost drunk with desire. He sought her consent with a miniscule rise of his eyebrows. She granted him anything he wanted with a quick smile and a half nod.

Of course she would not make him plead, Charles chided himself. She was his intended, his betrothed. When she'd agreed to marry him, her heart had granted him permission to claim this honor for which he would have gladly begged.

Charles leaned down as he pulled her upwards with gentle pressure at her back and beneath her chin. Elsie watched him close the space between them. She kept her eyes open for as long as she could. Soon, he was too close for her eyes to focus on his face. At this point he was also too close for her mind to focus on anything at all.

Her eyes closed again as his pliant lips pressed against her supple mouth. He was tentative at first, but quickly grew bolder. As unfamiliar as the act was to them as individuals, it felt natural and right for them as a twosome. Their lips seemed to know what to do without conscious instruction. Charles felt that he was following her lead. Elsie thought she was following his.

Charles' confidence in his ability to meet Elsie's lofty expectations for a first kiss had been rising steadily as he made his progression from hand to wrist to neck. Just as the nerves before a cricket match dissipate after the first bowl, so his naïve anticipation metamorphosed into proficient action the instant his lips touched hers.

Charles felt her breath shuddering through his body and he finally understood the truth about kissing. Kissing wasn't about what one did with one's lips and tongue. He felt the effects from his toe to his fingertips. In its truest form, kissing was intimacy experienced by the whole body and soul. This intimacy was about closeness; sharing a place and time with someone; sharing a breath.

Her scent invaded his senses. Not just the floral fragrance of the powder, but the deeper, more primal smell emanating from her pores. Charles had never been this close to anyone since he was a babe in arms. He'd kept the world at arm's length since his earliest memories. He'd never dreamed of letting anyone invade his personal space. Embracing her last night had been wonderful, but this was something more. He'd never dreamed it could feel so wonderful to trust someone without reserve.

For Charles had been holding something back from her. He hadn't meant to and he hadn't been aware, but it was clear that he was only now exposing the most vulnerable part of himself. Elsie had breached the walls and pushed through the curtain to the Holiest of Holies. His heart was now irrevocably hers. She possessed it, not as a lady might possess a jewel, but as a spirit might possess a body. The thought sent a jolt of fear through him. He felt exposed and naked. She must have felt his trepidation, for he felt her fingers raking through his hair. He felt her pulling them closer together. Her lips pressed insistently against his. In an instant his fear was gone. They were in this together. His Elsie would never break his heart. Reinvigorated by this knowledge, Charles increased the intensity of his kiss.

He dared to open his mouth and add his tongue to the equation of two lips plus two lips. She moaned her approval of this addition. Feeling lightheaded, Charles drew his lips away from her, sucking her lower lip gently, unwilling to fully break contact with her, but finally doing so. Once again, they stared into each others' eyes, flushed and panting slightly. Both of them looked shyly proud. They understood that the question of whether their marriage would be one of polite affection or passionate intimacy was well and truly answered.

"So it's to just be a marriage of convenience then?" She joked, knowing they had to keep the conversation light or they would both be lost to their desires.

"I thought that was understood," Charles answered with his voice cracking. Smiling grandly, Elsie brushed a single tear off his cheek as she brought her hand down from his neck. She nestled into his arms, resting her head against his chest.

"I love you, my man," she sighed.

"And I love you, my lass."

TBC...

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**AN/ So there we have Part One of The Kiss. What is Elsie feeling? I promise we'll find out.**

**I'm sorry this didn't post on Monday as planned, but I didn't want to post until I was 100% happy with the chapter. I had to settle for 99.999% happy. Also, I've been really busy since we got back from Vancouver. I'll try to go back and reply to the reviews from last chapter later this evening. Thank you for your reviews, favorties and follows!**


	29. And Not Just One

They stood for a time, luxuriating in the rare, uninterrupted solitude. Elsie inhaled deeply, trying to calm herself, but breathing in his musky odor only stoked her newly discovered desires. Her only comfort was knowing that she was not alone in her inability to cool her heated blood. She could hear Charles' heart continue to beat a frantic rhythm beneath his ribs.

"Well?" Charles prompted after they'd stood silently for a long while.

"Well what?" Elsie pushed back from him and looked up into his handsome face in puzzlement.

"Worth the wait?" He asked smugly. He was confident that he already knew the answer.

She pretended to deliberate for a few seconds before she nodded. She brought her hands to either side of his face. "I always knew you would be."

He was obviously moved by her earnest answer. His smug smile was replaced by a look of embarrassed humility. Not for the first time, Elsie was struck by the depths of his modesty. His job required a public display of vanity and confidence, but the real Charles Carson was self-effacing and vulnerable. Decades of patient mining had unearthed this treasure of a man. She'd been content to be one of the trusted few to see his true self, maybe the only one to really know him. To everyone else in this life, he had a role to play. He was a mentor and disciplinarian to the staff, a patient friend to Mrs. Patmore, a faithful servant to Lord Grantham and a stalwart supporter to Lady Mary. He was all of those things, but so much more. Only for Elsie could he shed all pretenses and just be. It was sometimes difficult to get him to drop the façade, even with her, but it was becoming easier. Here, in their house, wearing his grey suit, Charles was free to be the man that she loved so dearly.

Charles wanted to answer her with some bon mot, but his throat was constricted with emotion. The moment grew heavy between them. On an impulse, Elsie reached up and mussed his hair lovingly. Charles smiled at her playfulness, breaking the temporary spell of silence over them.

"I've always wanted to do that," she teased. "And now I can do it whenever I wish."

Outside, there must have been a break in the clouds, for the light in the room changed from dull grey to autumnal gold. In this lighting, with his hair disheveled and a serene smile on his face, Charles looked like a young man of no more than thirty years. He made Elsie feel like a lass not yet twenty-five. Not for the first time, she fantasized that they'd met when the world was still young for them both.

"Thank you for waiting, love," Charles said in a strained and husky voice. "You've the patience of a saint."

"Perhaps, but I have no intention of waiting another twenty years for a kiss, Charles," she said pointedly.

She guided his face down to hers and tilted her head. Elsie daringly parted her lips to receive him.

She'd once derogatorily described a kiss as a man chewing the face off a poor girl. She supposed her disgust at the time was partially on behalf of Mrs. Patmore, but she couldn't understand any woman wanting such attention from that horrible food merchant. Elsie wondered vaguely if she and Charles looked that ridiculous. Undeniably, there was an element of devouring and hunger in their kiss, but each participant felt the desire equally.

When their tongues met this time, it was not an accident of the moment as before; not the shy meeting of strangers but a dance between partners who were quickly beginning to ken the steps. As they perfected their skills, Elsie felt her tingling toes curling inside her shoes. It was a good thing there was no furniture in the house, she thought. A bed, or a sofa, or even a chaise lounge could have spelled disaster; a temptation they could not resist. Elsie then remembered that there was one piece of furniture in the house. No doubt the kitchen table was strong and sturdy.

Once, as a fledgling maid at her first posting, Elsie had happened upon a maid and a gardener kissing in the kitchen late one evening. She'd managed to slip away unnoticed, but she'd seen enough to know that if she were seated on the kitchen table or counter, she wouldn't have to strain up so high to reach his lips. They would be at just the right height to indulge themselves without fatigue for a very long time. She pictured herself perched on the table, eyelevel with Charles. She imagined her knees spread to allow him closer. The thought sent a shockwave of yearning through her body. She kissed him with more vigor than ever, even nipping lightly at his lip. Charles staggered back a half step, surprised by her renewed enthusiasm. This stumble jarred him back into reality.

"Ahem, yes," Charles coughed in embarrassment. "We should probably have our lunch now. Since the family changed their plans and will be back for late tea, we don't have much time. Mrs. Patmore has packed us quite a feast. We'll never be able to eat it all. Half of it is still in the kitchen."

Charles wasn't telling Elsie anything she didn't already know. He was just rambling nervously. Still, Elsie was grateful to hide under the cover of his words. It gave her the moments she needed to recollect herself. She feared she might have frightened him a little with her enthusiasm.

"We should go down then," Elsie agreed, reluctantly stepping out of his arms. Charles tugged nervously at the bottom of his suit vest. Elsie felt flushed and lightheaded, but she calmly turned and led him back down the hall and stairs toward the sitting room.

As she descended the stairs, Elsie realized that she finally understood the seductive power of lust. She'd spent years preaching abstinence to her girls, warning of the tragic fall that awaited a woman who could not control her baser instincts. She'd always spoken with authority from the moral high ground. She'd always set the example, always been the good girl who resisted temptation. She remembered telling Ethel that she'd never made a mistake as egregious as the doomed maid had committed. In retrospect, Elsie felt that she'd been rather imperious at the time. Now all those speeches were exposed as hypocrisy. Elsie now understood that she'd only resisted temptation because she'd never truly been tempted. It was clear to her that Charles could have seduced her at any point in their relationship. Everything about him made her whole body hum with pleasurable craving. She knew it was not in her power to deny him anything. It was a sobering thought, but one that also thrilled her to the core.

Elsie had to wonder if the only thing that separated her from women who had been brought low by lustful deeds was the fact that she could only be seduced by an honest man? Had she only remained chaste because Charles was so proper?

Back in the sitting room, the heat of her passion was replaced by a warm rush of an even deeper love when she saw the setting he'd prepared for them. Elsie knew immediately which plate was hers; delicate portions of everything and not a pickle in sight. His plate was piled randomly with everything her plate held plus a healthy helping of pickled beets. Behind her, Charles was still blathering mindlessly on about how they could stock their larder with the leftovers from what Mrs. Patmore had sent for them. She sat on the crate nearest her dish and waited for Charles to join her.

He finally stopped speaking and sat down opposite her. With a sheepish grin, he picked up his glass of lemonade and toasted, "To our first meal in our house."

"To the first of many," Elsie answered and raised her own glass. She hoped he realized she was not just referring to meals.

Charles' embarrassment quickly evaporated as he turned his attention to appeasing the usual sort of hunger. Elsie smiled as she watched him eat with such gusto. She then turned her attention to the room. Charles smiled happily when he looked up to see Elsie's eyes wandering the room approvingly. He could almost read her thoughts.

_A set of chairs, just there…and a small side table…maybe a writing desk in the corner…some lace curtains in the southern window…_

"I've budgeted a good deal to furnish the place," Charles said enthusiastically between bites of his rabbit pie. "Not enough for all new things, mind, but enough for some very fine furnishings. Mrs. Patmore helped me with the estimates. She's been visiting dealers on her half days."

"She and Mr. Mason, apparently," Elsie added with a smirk.

"Mr. Mason?" Charles asked in astonishment. This was a fresh bit of gossip to him.

"She says that he's been helping her with the house."

"Has he indeed? That old devil." Charles nodded approvingly. He'd noticed how cozy Mr. Mason and Mrs. Patmore had been at the unveiling of the memorial. Much of their closeness could be attributed to their mutual affection for Daisy, but not all, Charles thought.

"He's meeting her at her house on the second. Maybe we should invite them to stop by?"

At first Charles was confused. Why on earth would they want to actually schedule an interruption when they could have the whole day to themselves? Then he remembered the lecherous thoughts that had begun to run through his head during their last round of kissing upstairs. A whole day alone might be a dangerous temptation.

"I think that would be a fine idea," he admitted. In fact, he was a little worried about the time they still had left to be alone today. "I was thinking we might head back to the village early today."

"Early?" Oh dear, she had scared him. He might not feel comfortable being alone with her until they were properly married.

"I thought we might pay Mr. Travis a visit. Since we plan to inform the family this afternoon, there is no reason we shouldn't start the Banns tomorrow."

Elsie almost choked on her bread. "Tomorrow? Are you certain that's what you want?"

"You aren't getting cold feet are you?" He joked, but then set down his fork when she didn't laugh. "Well?"

"Certainly not, but what if…" Elsie hesitated to mention it, but she recognized that they needed to be honest with each other. "What if the family asks us to wait?"

"We've already agreed that we are done with waiting," Charles reminded her with a look of befuddlement.

"Yes, we agreed, but…Well…" She wasn't sure exactly how to phrase this without insulting him. "What if Lady Mary asks you to wait? I'm sorry, Charles, but we both know that that girl has had you wrapped around her finger since before we met."

Charles opened his mouth to protest, but Elsie's look made him think better of it. He shrugged to acknowledge that she was right.

"If she pouts and begs you to delay…" Elsie knew it would pain Charles to deny his favorite Crawley daughter anything. Elsie wanted nothing more than to defy the uppity minx, but she also wanted to protect her man from anything that would hurt him. "I cannot expect you to easily reverse decades of habit."

"No," Charles agreed. "It won't be easy. But you make it sound as if I've never gone against her wishes. I have…once."

_Haxby._ Neither of them wanted to speak the name. It had been a tumultuous few months for each of them emotionally, though they'd not been free to say so at the time.

"And you remember what happened, don't you?" She prompted.

"She was disappointed at first," he admitted reluctantly.

"She was monstrous to you and said terrible things meant to hurt you," Elsie reminded him.

"They were hurtful," Charles admitted. "But she didn't mean what she said, and she apologized in the end."

"Only after you were struck by the Spanish Flu!" Elsie said hotly. "Perhaps if people weren't so quick to accept her apologies, Lady Mary might think twice before she does things which required apology."

"Now, now, Mrs. Hughes," Mr. Carson tried to calm her with a tone of authority. "You know we won't reach a consensus on this subject."

Elsie bit back the retort that rose up in her like bile. She didn't want to ruin an otherwise lovely day.

"If you're done with your meal, may I propose we take a turn in our garden," Charles suggested, recognizing that they'd reached an impasse. "Perhaps you'll give me a chance to convince you that I mean what I say."

"I don't doubt that you mean it, Charles," Elsie said, softening her tone. "I just don't want you to make a promise that will put you in an untenable position."

"I appreciate your concern, but the promise I've made to you trumps any other considerations in my life," Charles reassured her. "If Lady Mary cannot understand that, then I am sorry for her."

His calm, matter-of-fact declaration succeeded in winning her over. She willed the tension out of her posture and smiled fondly at him. "You said something about a walk?"

TBC…

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**AN/ Sorry for the long delay. The Canucks are making me depressed:(**** Maybe after they are eliminated (perhaps in the next 6 hours) I'll be able to settle down and write again.**


	30. Better Than A Dream

From a smaller sitting room, a pair of French doors opened into the garden. As Charles and Elsie walked through the doors they were met by the fresh, crisp winter air. This cool air was a welcome change after the heady closeness of the house. Charles' mind cleared and he felt his wits returning to him.

As he looked at the small garden, Charles felt foolish for having suggested 'taking a turn'. There was hardly room for half a turn.

"Not quite so grand as Downton," he commented apologetically. "It will be a short walk."

"Nonsense," Elsie chided him. "It's perfect. Remember, whenever you're in the gardens at Downton, you are delivering a message or searching for someone."

"What has that to do with anything?"

"You are accustomed to walking quickly and with a purpose. We are not in any hurry today, Charles." Elsie leaned comfortably into his side. "You must learn the art of a leisurely stroll."

"Hmm. I think that is something I would enjoy learning. Especially with a teacher such as you," he hummed appreciatively. They ambled slowly by the dormant beds and bushes. "I thought we might ask Mr. Molesley the elder to help us with a garden plan. Is there anything in particular you'd like?"

"Roses," Elsie declared. "I've always wanted a garden with a wall of roses."

Charles smiled at her enthusiasm. "Mr. Molesley is the man to ask then. I think there are already several rosebushes, but we can put in some climbers too."

Elsie gripped his arm excitedly. "Oh, Charles, that would be lovely. There's nothing so beautiful in a garden as roses in full bloom."

"I must disagree with you, love," Charles said in a tone of gentle rebuke. "We can fill it with roses, but most beautiful thing in our garden will always be you."

Elsie's face bloomed as red as any rose at his compliment. "Flatterer." She batted playfully at his arm.

"It's only flattery if it's false," Charles argued.

Elsie's only answer was to shake her head and duck shyly. She very much enjoyed this side of her man. Happy, relaxed and flirtatious Charles was even more wonderful than she'd ever dared to dream.

They strolled to the far end of the garden where a bench sat in the muted sunshine. By silent consensus, they sat on the warmed stone seat. When Elsie smiled at Charles she could see that something was bothering him but he didn't want to ruin the moment.

"What's wrong, Charles? Are you nervous about telling the family?" She prompted.

He gave a guilty grimace and nodded. It was a good thing that everyone couldn't read him as well as Elsie could. "I was just considering what their response might be and what our options are. Though I don't think it's what either of us wants, we could afford to leave Downton as soon as we are married." He hated to speak to her of vulgar money matters, but she was to be his partner in business as well as life. Charles would be a fool not to take advantage of her keen economic skills. "I can show you the books when we get back to the house. We might have to skip a few renovations at first, but we could make it work. There is one important item about which I'm not entirely certain. I hesitate to mention it…"

"Becky," Elsie supplied for him.

"Yes. I've estimated the cost for her upkeep at four fifths of your old salary. That seems high, but I'd rather over estimate than under."

"It's not quite that much, but you're very close," Elsie confirmed. "And the price goes up every year."

Charles accepted this news with a grim sigh. Such a cost would be a drain on their capitol, but that just meant they needed the house to be profitable from the jump. He took her hand and gave her a brief but reassuring smile.

Elsie squeezed his hand, but remained mute. This was the moment Elsie had feared most since his proposal; the honest assessment of exactly how much of a drain she and Becky would be on Charles' savings. Not only could she not pay any money towards their dream, she was providing a sizable impediment. All she could bring to the venture was her talent for running an efficient household. She knew this was no small contribution, but they would have to tighten their belts considerably to afford Becky's continued care. Elsie was used to the sacrifice, but Charles was not. Becky was her sister; her responsibility, not his. _I should never have accepted him. _Elsie thought bitterly._ I was just being selfish. Even if he loves me, he might be better off…_

"Elsie," Charles' gentle voice mercifully brought this train of thought to an end. "I want to be clear that the decisions that affect Becky are yours and yours alone to make, but have you considered bringing her to live with us when we leave Downton?"

"I haven't really thought about it," she lied. She didn't want him to know how badly she wanted her sister to be part of their lives. "The move would be very stressful for her. She doesn't like change."

"Neither do I."

"She has fits of rage."

"So do I."

"And she is stubborn. She'll throw a fit you wouldn't believe over the smallest things," Elsie warned.

"Something as small as a sugar spoon, perhaps?" Charles smirked. "It sounds like your sister and I have a good deal in common."

"But it's different with her," Elsie insisted with a scowl. "She can't help it and reasoning with her doesn't work."

"Of course it's different, love," he hastened to calm her. "I didn't mean to make light of her…condition. I'm sorry."

"It would certainly be _cheaper _to move her in with us," Elsie admitted.

Charles frowned and shook his head. "This isn't about saving money, Elsie. We can afford to leave her in St. Annes, undisturbed, even if we must leave Downton immediately."

"So long as the house generates income relatively quickly," he added. "But with you at the helm, I don't doubt that the venture will prove lucrative sooner rather than later. In any event, money mustn't be an consideration when it comes to your sister."

Elsie wasn't sure if she entirely believed him. Was he being honest with her or was he only saying what he thought she wanted to hear? Elsie knew absorbing the cost would not be as simple as Charles made it sound. She did want so desperately to bring Becky to Yorkshire but it was a bittersweet wish. The reality of the thing scared her. Thinking of being a family again only reminded Elsie of all the years she'd left her sister in the hands of strangers. The move would be difficult for both sisters. After all this time, it felt as though the caretakers were Becky's family and Elsie was the stranger.

"There's no reason to decide now. We'll have to see how Becky feels about it," Elsie said, effectively tabling the topic.

Charles nodded fervently in agreement. "Yes, of course, but I don't think she'll object."

"It's a big change, maybe too big," Elsie tried to quell his enthusiasm. "It would be difficult for anyone, but especially so for Becky."

"We'll take it slow with her," Charles confirmed. "I'm looking forward to meeting her. I hope she likes me. I've never had a sister before."

Elsie watched him with wonder. His expression was eager and curious and even a little nervous. He obviously did not see Becky as a financial burden to regret, but as new family to embrace.

"I understand that we must introduce the idea gradually," he assured her. "But I think your sister and I may have something else in common besides a hatred for change."

Elsie waited for him to continue, but it soon became clear that he wasn't going to tell her unless she asked. "And what is that?" She asked, rolling her eyes.

"I think we'd both be willing to endure whatever the world might throw at us if it means being with you."

Elsie was deeply moved by his words, so plainly and honestly spoken. Maybe Becky would feel the same way. _How is it possible to keep finding reasons to love him even more? _Elsie wondered as she threw her arms around his neck and covered him with a barrage of tiny, fierce kisses.

Between pecks, Elsie praised him effusively. "I love you…sweet man…don't deserve…I owe…so much…never repay…"

While he was enjoying her affection Charles became slowly aware of what she was saying. Though he didn't want the kissing to stop, he could not let her continue. "Elsie… love… please…Steady on!"

"What is it?" She asked breathlessly. Their noses were still touching and his brow rested on her forehead.

"We'll have no more of that," Charles panted.

"No more kissing?" She teased with a playful pout.

"Oh, we'll have a bit more of that," he smiled and gave her chaste but lingering kiss. "But no more of this silly talk of deserving and repaying."

"But Charles, everything you've done…"

"I've done for selfish reasons," he interrupted her. "I assure you, there is nothing altruistic in my motives. Once the calculations are done, I think you'll find that…How did you put it once? Ah, yes. I think you'll find that I have the better bargain."

"I don't see how you figure that," Elsie objected.

"I'm not sure I can explain it all in one afternoon," Charles began. How could he make her understand that she was the only reason he was spending any of the money he'd saved? Without her, he'd have been content to work at Downton until keeling over in the middle of dinner service one night.

Some day he would tell her how he'd rejected the life his grandfather and mother had wanted for him. He'd tell her of a young man convinced that he was too high and mighty to be a servant; a young man who thought he was unique and special. He'd tell her how Charlie Carson finally learned the painful truth; he wasn't special. He couldn't even convince a simple girl like Alice to choose him over a charlatan like Grigg.

Charles had tried to live an extraordinary life, but he'd failed. He'd returned to service humbled and resigned. He would be what he was born to be. He would be the best butler he could be, but he would be only a butler. He would be content with vanity stolen from the family he served. He would accept the cold, reflected glory due to a servant. He would settle for style and show over substance. Or so the butler had told himself. And so it had been until he met a woman from whom he could no longer hide the man.

Someday Elsie would know exactly how she had rescued him, but today was not the day.

"You'll just have to take my word for it, Elsie. You've given me more than I can say. You're the reason I look forward to each day, the reason my future no longer stretches out before me cold and empty."

Elsie blushed and tried to look away from his intense gaze but he placed his fingers beneath her chin and would not let her drop her head in embarrassment. He needed her to see the truth of his next words in his eyes.

"Elsie Hughes, you have breathed fire into the dying embers of my life," he said in a near whisper, his lips almost touching hers. "It is I who cannot possibly repay you, but I shall try."

-00-

"Fancy a cuppa?" Mrs. Patmore asked as she shouldered her way into the housekeeper's sitting room. Mr. Hughes nodded absently. Mr. Carson was upstairs serving late tea to the family. Soon, she would join him and they would announce their news to the family together.

"I want to hear all about the house," the cook said enthusiastically as she poured two cups of tea. "Was it everything you'd hoped for?"

The cheeky look she gave Mrs. Hughes with her tea left no question of what she was really asking.

"Everything and then some," Mrs. Hughes answered dreamily.

"He did it then? He finally kissed you?" Mrs. Patmore squirmed and giggled.

"Mmhmm," Mrs. Hughes hummed as she nodded and bit at her exhausted lip.

"And?" Mrs. Patmore pressed.

"A lady doesn't kiss and tell," Mrs. Hughes teased as she took a sip.

"Ah, but you're not a lady," Mrs. Patmore insisted.

"Fortunately," Mrs. Hughes agreed with a guilty grin, but then remained silent.

"Oh, for the love of all things Holy or otherwise!" Mrs. Patmore burst. "Give me _something!_"

"I cannot offer details, Mrs. Patmore," the housekeeper said calmly and smirked. "But I will say that Charles Carson is a man of _many_ talents."

"Please tell me that not all of his talents are entirely proper," the cook begged.

"No, not all of them," Elsie confirmed with a proud smile. "Not entirely proper at all."

THE END

* * *

**AN/ Yes, I mean it this time. There will be one epilogue and two supplemental, stand-alone stories, but then I feel I must leave this story for the time being. **

**The family's response, the wedding and the wedding night are all matters to revisit after Series 6 airs. **

**Please drop me a note if you are so inclined. I've missed chatting with many of you this week. Your support throughout this story has been greatly appreciated. I hope you will join me as I rejoin Perpetual Motion next week.**


	31. Epilogue Part One

Epilogue Part One:

_ August 1925, 'Sunshine House' Lytham St. Anne's_

In answer to Elsie's knock, the bright yellow door opened to reveal a tall, plump woman who looked to be in her mid-fifties. "Mrs. Hughes!" She exclaimed merrily. "Oh, I beg your pardon; it'll be Mrs. Carson now, won't it?"

"You can still just call me Lele," Elsie insisted. "Katie, this is Charles." She indicated the suddenly timid butler behind her. Elsie hadn't seen him this nervous since their wedding day.

Many months had passed since that wonderful day. Months filled with bliss and love and disagreements and reconciliation. Months full of discovery and being discovered. Marriage had been a revelation for both of them. People said that Charles Carson was a changed man, but that wasn't exactly true. He was finally free to be the man he had always been.

Elsie was happier than she'd ever dreamed possible. She lacked only one thing to make her joy complete; her sister.

"Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Rodgers," Charles said as he extended his hand.

"You'd best call me Katie, Charlie boy," the woman said heartily. "We, none of us, put on airs here 'bouts." She shook his hand as firmly as any man and clapped him on the shoulder. Charles winced slightly at the moniker, but did not protest. It seemed that everyone's name was required to end with an 'ee' sound and a strong emphasis on the last syllable. In the woman's friendly voice he detected a slight East London accent hidden under a Lanky veneer.

"Well then, it's a pleasure to meet you, Katie," Charles corrected. The woman's welcome and informal manner actually helped to calm his nerves. Even a year ago such unearned familiarity would have made him uncomfortable. There seemed to be no end to the ways marriage had changed him.

"Come in, you two," Katie beckoned. "As my mum used to say, 'There's no use lingerin' in doorways; people will think you're up to no good.' Come through to the library."

Elsie and Charles did as they were bid.

"Is Becky in the library?" Elsie asked as they followed.

"No, she's in her room having a lie down. She usually don't nap this time of day, but she wore herself out running to the window looking for you all morning," Katie explained.

"But my letter specifically said we'd be on the 11:10 train," Elsie said. "Becky's usually very good with telling time." Elsie had spent hours teaching Becky how to read time when they were children. It was an essential skill that she'd been determined that Becky should have.

"That she is," the caretaker agreed. "But not when she's this excited. No chance getting her to look at the clock. She was convinced every step was yours. She's talked of nothing but your visit for the past two weeks."

Guilt flared up in Elsie's breast, but relief also. Obviously, Becky still thought the world of her big sister. "I should have found ways to visit more often," Elsie whispered to Charles as Katie turned to lead the way to the library. Charles knew that he could not argue away his wife's self-recrimination so he settled for taking her hand and giving it a reassuring squeezed.

The three of them sat down in a small room that Charles grudgingly allowed might be called a library. _Well, it does have books,_ he reasoned.

Elsie and Charles sat closely together on a small couch while Katie occupied one of several upholstered chairs. "I must admit that I was rather shocked when Becky shared your letter with us regarding your engagement, Lele. So was Becky."

"Did she understand what that meant? Her reaction wasn't clear from your replies," Elsie inquired. Becky rarely wrote her own letters but dictated to her caregivers.

"She knows what marriage is, though it took her a while to apply it to you. I think she associates it with younger people. No offense meant," she added hastily.

"None taken," Elsie replied. It was an attitude they'd encountered quite often lately.

"She's warmed up to the idea, but her response might not be exactly what you'd hoped for." Mrs. Rogers shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

"What do you mean?" Elsie asked. Charles sat silently by her side, dying to know the answer as much as his wife.

"Becky seems to have glossed over the marriage detail and fixated on the idea that you've bought a big house and have a butler," Katie informed them. "That's what she keeps telling everyone who will listen."

"Oh dear," Elsie wasn't sure she liked the sound of that.

"I don't think you should worry," Katie hastened to assure them. "She's very proud. It's rather sweet really. I suppose she's known plenty of married people, but she doesn't know anyone who has a butler."

"Yes, I suppose that's true," Elsie allowed.

"Well now, you didn't come all this way to talk to me," Katie said, bounding from her chair with the energy of someone half her age. "Charlie, why don't you wait in here while Elsie and I fetch Becky from her nap?"

Charles nodded his agreement and the two women left him to his own devices. Too agitated to sit, he wandered in a small circle inspecting the space. It was clean and orderly. Even the top shelf of the bookcase was free from dust. But then Charles would expect no less from a place Elsie entrusted with her sister's care. An incomplete jigsaw puzzle was laid out on a folding table in the corner. Charles wondered vaguely if it was from Downton.

To calm himself, Charles ran through some of the things Elsie had already told him about Becky. She'd told him of the fights Elsie had with children at school over their treatment of Becky. She'd spoken of the old crone down the lane that blamed Becky when her hens stopped laying. She'd told him of the kind post master who always moved the Hughes family to the front of the line because Becky often became agitated when the line was long. There were tales of small mindedness and small kindness. Though she never said it, Charles could tell that Elsie sometimes resented the kindnesses as much as the cruelty. All she wanted for Becky was for the world to treat her as a normal woman.

_Don't speak too loudly or make any sudden movements,_ Elsie had warned him. _She's very wary of men. My mother wanted her to be safe and warned her about strange men. She may have been too zealous. _

Elsie had told him all these things leading up to their trip to prepare him and calm him, but she'd only succeeded in making him more apprehensive. What if he accidentally did something to offend Becky? What if she didn't like him? What if she was worse off than he imagined? He wanted Becky to come live with them when they retired because it was what Elsie wanted. Elsie would be heartbroken if it turned out the Becky's care was beyond their means.

_No use worrying about spilling milk that's still in the barn, Charlie boy. Just be polite when you meet the lass and act naturally._

One thing Charles wasn't worried about was treating Becky normally. He had never been one to condescend when speaking to children and he didn't intend to start now. He saved his sarcasm for adults who were intentionally obtuse.

Charles was lost in his thoughts when the door opened and the women returned. He silently cursed himself for not being seated. Elsie had warned him that his height might be intimidating to Becky at first. His instinct was to dash for a chair and sit quickly, but since that was exactly the sort of sudden movement Elsie had warned him about, he just froze beside the window.

Elsie gave him a quick, exasperated look as she and Becky entered the room arm in arm. He shrugged apologetically, but did not move from where he stood. With the keenly honed skills of a butler, Charles cataloged Becky's appearance with one glance. She was younger than Elsie, slightly taller and slightly skinnier. Her hair was pulled back in a braid that hung to the middle of her back. It was light brown with amber streaks and one large streak of grey.

Even the most casual observer would know the two women were sisters. Becky was very pretty, in a quiet sort of way. She had the same high and bonnie cheeks as Elsie. Her eyes were the same stunning blue, though they lacked Elsie's fire. Becky's mouth was even like her sister's, perfectly proportioned for her face and possessing a perpetual, wry upturn at one corner.

In short, Rebecca Hughes seemed perfectly normal to Charles upon first glance. Perhaps her clothing and hair were simplistic and childish, but that could be dismissed as a matter of styling. As the sisters moved to the couch to sit, however, the differences between the siblings became unmistakable.

Like her clothes and hair, Becky's bearing was that of a child. _An insecure child,_ Charles thought.

She held her right arm across her chest in a posture of perpetual protection. The fingers on that hand twitched constantly as if she were counting on them. There seemed to be a pattern to the twitches, but it was too complex for Charles to decipher. Her left arm waved vaguely about, unheeded. Becky's eyes darted around the room, never settling anywhere for long and never meeting anyone else's eyes. She blinked aggressively every few seconds. At the same time, almost her entire body would seem to convulse. Becky held her neck at an angle that looked exceedingly uncomfortable, as if she had a perpetual knot in one shoulder.

"Why don't we have a seat and a spot of tea, Bea?" Elsie said gently. She sat down and beckoned for Becky to join her. Becky shook her head and pulled away from Elsie's reach. She went to the bookcase and, like a petulant child, turned her back to the adults in the room. She pantomimed trying to choose a book, but constantly cast her eyes over her shoulder towards Charles. She obviously thought she was observing him surreptitiously. For his part, Charles was trying to make himself as insubstantial as possible. He remembered reading the Crawley girls a fairytale long ago where an ogre had been tricked into turning himself into a mouse. Charles fervently wished he had the power to make himself the size of a mouse.

"Sit down with Lele and we'll have tea," Katie coaxed as she rolled a teacart into the room, but Becky had other ideas. Apparently, she was growing bold, for she left the bookcase to stand facing Charles, though she was still a safe distance away.

Katie rolled the cart beside Charles who realized he was probably standing where they usually parked the tea. Becky actually looked directly at Charles and then at the cart and then back at Charles. She frowned at him and bit her lip. Charles knew exactly what she was thinking; she expected him to play the role of butler. Grateful to have something familiar to do, Charles jumped to action.

"Shall I pour, Miss?" He asked Becky in his most officious tone.

Seemingly pleased by this, Becky gave him a curt nod before walking casually back to sit with Elsie.

"Milk, no sugar for me," Katie whispered and gave him a smile. She then went to sit with the two sisters. Elsie caught Charles' eye and mouthed the words, 'like mine' to him. Charles gave her a wink and nodded.

Charles quickly prepared the ladies' tea as Becky sat very daintily with her hands in her lap. The tics were still present, but she had controlled them in her attempt to appear genteel and proper as befitted someone being served by a butler.

Charles finished fixing the tea and brought it to the women. There was no tray, but his hands were large enough that he could balance two cups and saucers on one hand while carrying the third in the other hand. He handed the first cup to Katie and then gave the sisters their identical drinks. Charles then returned to the cart to retrieve the small tin of assorted McVitie's. He held the tin down for Katie.

"Thank you, Charlie," she said pleasantly and took a small, round biscuit before Charles turned to his wife and sister-in-law. He bowed before them and held the plate just below Becky's eye level.

"None for me, thank you, _Charlie_," Elsie smirked at him. Despite the tension of the situation, Elsie was not blind to the humor of it. She actually liked calling him Charlie, but he'd yet to warm to the idea.

Becky considered the biscuit offerings for so long that Charles started to feel it in his back as he bowed before her. Finally, she took a digestive and he could straighten up. He returned to the cart and set the biscuits back in their place. He briefly considered making himself a cup of tea, but rejected the idea when he noticed how Becky was beginning to relax. He didn't want to frighten her back into her shell.

For the next twenty minutes Katie and Elsie bravely maintained a surprisingly casual conversation. They chatted about the weather, fashions and some books that Becky might have read while the room's other two occupants continued to size each other up in silence. When their cups were emptied, Charles refilled them.

"I'll fetch a fresh pot," he announced as he poured out the last of the tea into Elsie's cup. Grateful for the reprieve, he practically dashed out the door without bothering to ask the location of the kitchen. Unwilling to go back and ask, he wandered off in search of the kitchen.

Charles headed to the back of the house. Judging by the rooms he'd seen, he had a good guess which way to go.

"Who're you?" A belligerent voice demanded. Charles turned to find himself confronted by a diminutive old man wearing thick spectacles.

"Charlie Carson, I'm here visiting Becky Hughes," he stammered. "I was sent to fetch more tea."

"Ah, well then, follow me!" The man said cheerily. His animosity was completely gone. "We're setting up for lunch in here."

Charles didn't know how to describe the room to which he was led. It was part servant's hall, part dining room and part play room. The room was brightly decorated with paper chains and paintings. The table was large enough to accommodate a dozen people plus or minus a few. Several people were laying the table with plates and silverware. The settings at the table were a hodgepodge. Each person seemed to have their own specialized place setting. A tiny plate and cup were set in front of a highchair with a doll seated in it. Everyone was moving around industriously, but independently. Charles was used to seeing a household work like a well-oiled machine. This was more like watching a bag of cats.

One tall, skinny woman in her twenties seemed to be orchestrating the chaos. "No, that goes at Johnny's place, Vickie," she instructed with infinite patience. She looked up as Charles and his guide entered the room.

"Who have you found, Johnny?"

"This here's Charlie, Becky's butler," the old man answered before joining the lunch preparations. This brought everyone else in the room to a dead stop. They all looked at him in wonder.

"He don't look like no butler I never seen," a raspy voice said.

"'Cuz you ain't never seen no butler," a squeaky voice answered. The room erupted in laughter as everyone tittered and giggled. A few of the bolder… _What does one call them?_ Charles wondered. _Patients? Residents?_ Yes, he liked that one.

A few of the bolder residents approached him. A few reached out to touch his arm and suit. One young man even stuck his fingers in Charles' waistcoat pocket and took out his watch.

Unsure of what to do, Charles mumbled "I was sent for more tea," and held up the teapot as proof.

"Of course you were," she said in a tone that Charles found condescending coming from someone half his age. Charles wanted to point out that _he_ was not one of her charges, but realized that it would likely offend most of the other people in the room. "Leave him be, Davy," she chided the man holding Charles' watch. The man tucked the watch reluctantly back into Charles' waistcoat pocket and sulked away.

"I'm Ronnie," the woman introduced herself.

_Of course you are._ Charles resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He couldn't think it helped anyone here to use such childish appellations even for those in authority.

"Becky is such a favorite around here. Keeps us all in stitches she does," Ronnie gushed as she led Charles through to a proper kitchen with a proper cook. Charles sighed imperceptibly as they left the disorder behind them for a time. "She has such an active imagination, always telling stories or singing songs, but I'm sure you've seen that for yourself."

Charles shrugged noncommittally. He didn't want to admit to this woman that he scared Becky so badly that the lass wouldn't even speak a word in his presence.

Ronnie set Charles right with fresh water and returned to the dining room and her task of harnessing all the energy of the residents.

Thankful to leave the maelstrom behind him, Charles headed back to the library. Obviously, they wouldn't have much more time with Becky. Visitors were not allowed at meals. As Charles approached the library he heard sounds of mirth coming down the hallway; three very distinct laughs.

"I can't wait to meet Mr. Bear," he heard Elsie say. "He sounds very charming."

"Oh, aye! He _is!_" Becky exclaimed. Charles assumed it was Becky by process of elimination. Also, he could hear Elsie in that brogue.

Charles pushed gently into the room carrying the tea pot before him like an offering. Elsie and Katie were still chuckling, but Becky fell instantly silent. Telling himself not to be offended, Charles took the pot round to pour for the women. He then went to the cart for the milk which he also brought round.

"Becky, why don't you tell Charlie about Mr. Bear?" Elsie urged when she'd withstood the silence as long as she could. She really had expected Becky to be more accepting of Charles once she was comfortable again.

Becky looked like she wanted to say no, but didn't want to disappoint her sister. "I have a bear. His name is Mr. Bear," Becky informed him dully.

_That pretty much covers that topic,_ Charles thought sarcastically. Obviously, Becky was not keen to speak with him.

"Becky sews clothes for Mr. Bear," Katie prompted.

Before Charles could think of a response that might draw Becky into conversation with him, the clock chimed the half hour.

"Lunchtime," Becky declared. She handed Charles her teacup and left the room.

"Patience," Katie said kindly as she set her own teacup on the cart. "Rome wasn't built in a day." She followed Becky down the hall leaving Charles and Elsie alone.

Elsie watched Charles warily. He started rearranging the items on the tea cart nervously. He looked very close to panic.

"She's not usually like that," Elsie tried to explain. "She can be very talkative and the tics aren't so pronounced when she isn't nervous."

"This was a mistake," Charles replied with a frown and shook his head. "I'm sorry, love."

Elsie nodded in defeat. She hadn't expected him to give up so quickly, but she could understand. It was too much to ask Charles to accept the full burden of Becky's condition. It was enough that he didn't begrudge spending the money for her care. Elsie would be content to visit Becky more often after her retirement.

"You should have come to visit her on your own for the first visit. She'll never agree to come live with us at this rate," Charles pouted. "She hates me."

Relief washed over Elsie. How could she have doubted him?

"She doesn't hate you," his wife soothed. "She doesn't know you yet. We're here all week so she can get to know you."

"What if she gets to know me and still hates me?"

"To know you is to love you, my dear," Elsie teased. She wiggled her way into his arms. "I've no doubt she will warm to you. I did."

"I promise that I shall win her over," Charles smiled sadly. "Just the way I won you."

"And how was that?"

"One cup of tea at a time."

**End- Epilogue Part One**

* * *

**AN/ The Epilogue wasn't supposed to be two parts, but it just got too unwieldy. I wanted to get my 'vision' of Becky down before we meet her (or forget she ever existed) in canon.  
**


	32. Epilogue Part Two

**EPILOGUE Part Two**

* * *

Charles and Elsie were staying at the second finest hotel in the Lytham St. Annes. Lady Mary had gifted them with funds for a wedding trip. She'd given them enough for a stay at the plushest hotel in town, but when it came down to it, both Elsie and Charles were too practical to spend all the money so extravagantly.

Though everyone knew their destination, only a select few suspected the couple's reason for choosing Lytham St. Annes. As far as most people knew, it was to enjoy the seaside.

They did splurge to enjoy a sumptuous breakfast in bed their first morning. _We are on our wedding trip,_ Charles told himself. Just because they were being slightly practical didn't mean they couldn't indulge a little.

After breakfast, it was time to visit Becky again. Charles' nerves had settled a little since the first meeting, but he had to constantly remind himself not to expect too much too soon. Getting to know Becky would be a gradual process. He would not be letting Elsie down if he failed to gain Becky's confidence on first acquaintance. The most important thing was that Elsie knew he wouldn't give up.

They exited the hotel and Charles gave their destination to the doorman who smartly waved a cab up to the curb with his white gloved hands.

"Number 15, Balmoral Road. Sunshine House," the doorman instructed the cabbie. "You know, the one with the yellow door where the eejits live."

Charles turned from where he'd been helping Elsie into the cab.

"What did you say?" He demanded.

"I was only telling him your destination, sir," the doorman replied, looking terrified.

"For your information, my sister lives at Sunshine House. She's one of the….what did you call it?"

"I didn't mean nothing by it, sir," the man stammered.

"I've half a mind to speak to your superior," Charles growled.

"Charles," Elsie called softly from the backseat of the cab.

"Luckily for you, my wife is more tolerant than you and I," Charles glowered darkly at the man. "And I wouldn't want to keep my sister waiting, so I'll settle for giving you bit of advice; the next time you _mean_ nothing, I suggest you _say_ nothing. Now, here's for your trouble." He forced a few coins into the doorman's hand with barely restrained rage. Seeing the look in Charles' eyes, the astonished man jumped from fearing for his job to fearing for his life. He didn't breathe again until the cab turned off the street and out of his sight.

"Are you alright, love?" Elsie asked as the cab navigated the sleepy streets of St. Annes.

"How do you stand for it?" He asked in wonder. "You've had to deal with ignorance like that your whole life. How can you abide it?"

"I've learned to ignore it and so will you," she comforted him. "My Da used to say, 'You can't beat the stupid out of people, lass.' But that didn't stop me from trying."

"You mentioned that you got into fights with children over their treatment of Becky."

"That I did. The bigger and stupider they were, the better."

"Were there many fights?" Charles couldn't resist a smile thinking of young Lele Hughes standing toe to toe with children twice her size.

"By the end of the first month Becky was in school, I was known as the 'crazy Hughes sister,'" Elsie said with a small laugh.

"Which made Becky the 'normal Hughes sister,' I assume," Charles surmised. "Just as you had hoped."

"I don't know if I planned it, but I was glad for it," Elsie confessed. "Things settled down after that. I didn't have many friends that year, but that didn't matter because I had Becky."

They spent most of the day with Becky, except for luncheon, but very little progress was made. Charles was thoughtful and sullen most of the day though he tried to hide it. Both Hughes sisters saw right through him. He spoke only when spoken to and only answered tersely, as he would answer the family at dinner.

Becky's mood seemed to follow Charles'. She still was not talking to him directly, but she wasn't as shy about speaking in front of him. There was one minor incident when Becky threw a small tantrum in a shop when Elsie tried to buy her some hair ribbons. She gave a high pitched squeal, shut her eyes, covered her ears and refused to respond to Elsie's gentle coaxing for over three minutes. Finally, order was restored, but Becky's tics were more pronounced after the episode.

-00-

"I didn't help my cause much today," Charles grumbled later that night as he pushed his slippers under the bed and swung his legs under the covers.

"No, but I understand how the incident with the doorman must have put you in a mood," Elsie soothed, setting aside the book she'd been reading. "I'm sure Becky's tantrum didn't help matters." She was concerned that witnessing one of Becky's 'fits', even a minor one like today's, might make him rethink bringing her to live with them.

"She didn't want that ribbon," Charles shrugged. "I've seen worse from Lady Mary when she was young."

"I've seen worse from Lady Mary more recently than that," a very relieved Elsie joked. Charles chose to ignore her little jibe. Elsie rolled to her husband and ran her hands over his crisp pajama shirt. He flinched reflexively at her touch. "Goodness, you needn't be so tense, Mr. Carson."

He placed a hand over hers and looked at her lovingly. "I just want Becky to like me. I can't think of anything else."

"I think I can make you forget," Elsie cooed. "And it should help relieve some of that tension too."

"Well, we are on our wedding trip," Charles acquiesced gladly. He reached over Elsie to turn off the lamp on her bedside table.

-00-

It was the morning of their second day in St. Annes. Elsie planned to take Becky out for lunch to a fancy local establishment. It was a tradition that both sisters cherished. Becky always wore her finest dress and a very fancy hat. The hat had once belonged to Lady Sybil Crawley; a fact Becky would tell to anyone who cared to listen. Elsie also wore her Sunday best, which this year was the traveling suit Mrs. Crawley had bought Elsie as a wedding gift.

Charles' plan for the day was to lay on a chair on the beach and read until he joined Elsie and Becky at Sunshine House for tea in the afternoon. For now, he still lazed in bed, blissfully naked.

"Make sure you stay in the shade," Elsie warned him as she returned from the ensuite bathroom wearing only her undergarments. "I don't want you to get too pink on the first day. You'll be an insufferable grump for the rest of the trip."

"I've news for you, Mrs. Carson;" Charles laughed at her teasing and reached out a long arm from under the covers to pull her back to the bed. "I'm _always_ an insufferable grump."

"Is that so?" Elsie giggled as she tumbled beside him. "I've heard people say so, but I hadn't noticed."

"You only haven't noticed because you are madly in love with me." He lavished her collarbone and neck with kisses.

"I wouldn't say _'madly,'_" she corrected him as she drew his face up to hers. "But I am quite fond of you; really quite fond."

"I can live with that," Charles conceded before kissing her and rolling so that she lay on top of him, only the thin sheet between them. His hands steadied her with a firm grip on her scantily clothed backside.

"Mmm," she groaned in agreement.

After several minutes of extreme canoodling, Elsie pulled back reluctantly. "I have to leave if I'm to meet Becky in time."

Charles sighed dramatically and seemed resigned, but his hands continued to roam and caress her body.

"I'm sorry that I'm neglecting you, love. I know this isn't exactly how you pictured our wedding trip," Elsie frowned apologetically.

"_This…_" he squeezed her body tightly to his. "Is precisely how I pictured our wedding trip. And I can assure you that I do not feel the least bit neglected." The bob of his eyebrows reminded her of what they'd gotten up to the night before and then again just a few short hours ago.

"Then let that tide you over until this evening." She rolled away from him and swatted playfully at his groping hands.

She dressed quickly, after refastening a few of the hooks on her corset that he had worked loose.

"I'll try again to explain our marriage to Becky," she spoke over her shoulder as she stepped into her skirt. Charles had pushed himself up to sit in the bed, the better to enjoy the spectacle.

"Don't force it, El," he replied. "I know it will take time. You've said yourself that the worst thing we can do is force anything on her."

"Yes, I did say that. Still…" Realizing there was no point in continuing this uncomfortable conversation, Elsie completed her dressing in silence. Occasionally, she'd catch a glimpse of Charles in the mirror and give him a quick wink to let him know he'd been caught staring.

Elsie put the finishing touches on her hair and ran over to give Charles a quick kiss on the forehead. He resisted the urge to grab her again, knowing he'd only muss her clothing and make her late. Elsie had warned Charles that Becky was agitated by tardiness. _'Something else you two have in common,' she'd teased._ Charles didn't want to do anything that might cause Becky to become upset.

"I'll see you at tea," she said absently as she affixed her hat. "Be sure to bring those cakes from the bakery I told you about. Becky loves their lemon custard."

"I've got the address right here," Charles patted his wallet on the bedside table. "You really think bribery will help?"

"It couldn't hurt," Elsie shrugged and blew him another kiss before she bustled out the door.

-00-

Several small bells chimed as Charles pushed into the bakery. The sound was light and pleasing. Charles smiled up at the little cluster that produced the sound. His mood was much improved from yesterday. He'd spent a very relaxing morning on the beach in front of the hotel, though that was hardly the sole reason for his sunnier disposition.

"What can I do for you, sir?" Asked the lanky and balding man who stood behind the counter.

_Never trust a thin baker,_ Charles remembered Mrs. Patmore saying. A picture on the wall behind the man showed a large, happy family. They were all pleasantly plump with the exception of the father. This gave Charles some small assurance.

"I've come to pick up some sweets for tea," Charles replied.

"You've come to the right place," the man beamed. "Finest tarts and cakes on the South Promenade."

"So I've heard. My sister lives at Sunshine House," Charles informed the man. "Do you know it?" Charles didn't care how fine the lemon custard was; he wouldn't buy anything here if this man spoke ill of Becky or her friends.

"Oh, aye, I know several of the lads and lasses from Sunshine House," the man perked up. "Were you sent for something specific?"

"Lemon custard."

"That'll be for Miss Becky. Awfully fond of her lemon custard, she is."

"Yes," Charles agreed in astonishment. "How did you know?"

"Several of them come here every second Wednesday," the baker nodded as if that explained everything. "When they get their allowances."

"Ah, of course." _What else would Becky spend her allowance on but a sweet treat?_ Charles reasoned. "My wife and I would like to provide cakes and tarts for their tea today. Could you help me with the selections?"

"Happy to! I know everyone's favorites." The man quickly filled several paper boxes with cakes and tarts ranging from chocolate walnut to strawberry rhubarb. Last, but not least, he lovingly placed the lemon custard tart in a shallow box. He put all the items in two bags and rang up the sale.

Charles handed him a ten pound note. "Keep the change," he said with a grateful smile.

"I can't accept this, sir," the baker stammered. "You've over six pound coming to you."

"Please, take it," Charles insisted. "My wife and I will never be able to repay your kindness to Becky. Money is a crass way to express our appreciation, but it's all I have at the moment."

"But…"

"Please."

The stunned baker looked down at the note. For a split second, he wondered if it was a forgery, but dismissed the notion. He'd be a fool to turn down the money. Finally, the businessman made a business decision. "Very well, I'll accept it, but I feel odd taking money for just being kind to a customer."

"You'd be surprised how rare true kindness is," Charles informed the man as he took up his purchases. As he left the shop, the cheerful tinkling of the chimes made Charles smile again.

-00-

"There you are!" Elsie exclaimed as he rounded the corner onto Balmoral Road. "I've been keeping an eye out for you."

"Is something the matter?" Charles asked with concern.

"Nothing serious, but I'm afraid I've made matters a little more awkward."

"How so?"

"Over lunch I was telling Becky how our marriage affects her. I told her she was your sister and that you're her brother," Elsie explained quickly.

"And what is wrong with that? Did she react poorly to the idea?"

"No, she loved the idea of having a butler."

"You said 'brother' not 'butler', didn't you?"

"Of course I did, but that's not what she heard." Elsie wrung her hands. "She was proud enough when you were just my butler, but she's fit to burst now that she thinks she has a butler too. When I told her you were bringing cakes for tea, she thought I was suggesting we have a great, formal tea party to show you off to her friends."

Elsie pointed up the street to Sunshine House. "They're all in there getting dressed up as though they were supping with the queen!" Elsie finished. She bit her lip with worry as she awaited her husband's response.

"Ah," Charles laughed as he considered how the original misunderstanding continued to grow and mutate. "I wish I had my livery."

"You aren't angry?"

"Why should I be angry? I've determined to win Becky over one cup of tea at a time and this will be several dozen cups of tea," Charles grinned. "Think of the progress I'll make and the time we'll save!"

Elsie joined his optimistic laughter and kissed his cheek. "Thank you, my love."

"Besides, you know that I'm more comfortable serving tea than sipping it."

Elsie chuckled and wrapped her arm around his as they turned towards Sunshine House. "You can take the butler out of the Abbey, but you can't take the butler out of the man."

-00-

Charles carried his bags of tea cakes to the kitchen. He would have used the servant's entrance, but Sunshine house didn't have one; it had long since been transformed into the door to the garden.

"What a treat!" The cook exclaimed. Charles couldn't remember her name. _Emily or Frankie or Trudy…something along those lines._ In this house, that wasn't much help. Charles was usually very good with names, but the inhabitants of Sunshine House defeated him.

Elsie brought Becky into the kitchen. Charles could hear her explaining that the Hostess discusses the details of the tea with the butler before the guests arrive. Charles stood to attention as Becky entered the kitchen as if it were the Dowager Countess herself.

"Charlie," Elsie facilitated. "Miss Becky would like to let you know her special instructions for today's tea."

"Very good, Miss," Charles bowed slightly. "What are your instructions?"

Becky only hesitated for a moment before she began to list all the things she wanted him to do to make her tea extra special. "Davy and Johnny can't sit next to each other or they'll fight. Penny will want anything chocolate. Allie won't want chocolate. Vickie likes warmed, milky tea like a child, but you mustn't call it that." Becky spoke with an air of authority and entitlement that Lady Mary would envy.

It was the most Becky had ever said to Charles and he could not resist giving Elsie a knowing eyebrow raise. Becky still wouldn't look into his eyes, but she was definitely warming to him.

"And Catherine the Great must have her milk at room temperature."

Seeing Charles' confusion, Elsie explained. "Catherine the Great is Suzie's cat."

"Ah," Charles nodded. This was going to be a tea party the March Hare would appreciate.

"It's a big party, so I think you may need help," Becky continued. It was then that Charles noticed the stuffed bear Becky was carrying in the crook of her arm. It was a well-loved bear, but the clothes it wore looked new. As Charles looked closer, he realized that the bear was wearing a crude sort of livery. There were loose threads on the tailored jacket that would never pass muster at Downton, but the miniature tie was secured in a perfect double Windsor. "Mr. Bear will help."

"What is Mr. Bear's experience?" Charles asked seriously, as if honestly considering the bear for a position.

"Not much," Becky admitted with a small frown and a long blink. "He only just got his suit."

"Luckily for Mr. Bear, having the suit is one of the most important elements to being a good butler," Charles said encouragingly. "One mainly has to look the part and he certainly fits the bill."

This pronouncement obviously made Becky very proud for she scrunched up her nose while exhibiting a proud smile.

"Due to his relative inexperience, perhaps we should make Mr. Bear a footman or an under butler," Charles suggested.

"Cinderella had footmen made from mice!" Becky remembered excitedly. "Bear can be a footman!"

"Very good, Miss. Was there anything else?" Charles inquired. "Perhaps we shouldn't serve _all_ the lemon custard. If we saved a slice, then it would be available for Miss to have as her pudding this evening."

"Mmhmm!" Becky approved. She handed Mr. Bear to Charles and grabbed Elsie's arm happily. The sisters turned to leave the kitchen but Becky had a thought and turned back to Charles. "Make it a big slice, Charlie."

-00-

The tea felt more like an indoor garden party as all the girls insisted on wearing large and ludicrous hats. Even Catherine the great wore a garish bow, though not happily. The men had placed squares of colorful fabric in their suit pockets like handkerchiefs. Every time anyone had the slightest sniffle or coughed, Davy and Johnny both pulled out their 'handkerchiefs' with great flourishes and offered them to the afflicted soul.

Everyone affected posh accents, enjoying the pageantry of the afternoon. Charles calmly officiated over the odd party with professionalism few could match. The guests were very impressed by his stoic demeanor. Becky was beside herself with pride. So was Elsie, though she could hardly keep a straight face at the sight of Charles with Mr. Bear. Elsie could hardly wait to tell Mrs. Patmore how their stuffy butler had served tea with a stuffed bear dressed like a butler tucked under his arm throughout.

Titles were bandied about as the guests chatted about things they considered upper class; yachting, horse racing, visiting the king and the like. Charles was fascinated by their imaginations, but he honestly wondered where they got their information.

"When I go up to London next week, I should take the hounds, me thinks," Johnny stated grandly out of the blue.

"Whatever for, M'lud?" Vickie asked in wonder.

"I hear there is a terrible fox infestation, milady, your highness," the man returned. All the assembly nodded thoughtfully at this obvious truth.

"Shall I bring my horses and guns, your grace?" Davy offered.

"Capitol idea, Duke, sir Earl," Johnny declared. "We'll have Trafalgar rid of those pesky foxes in time to catch the regatta."

"My friend, the King, will be so pleased," Becky joined in. "Perhaps he'll knight you!"

Everyone laughed and smiled at the idea of Johnny becoming a knight. The conversation turned, but the lightness and mirth continued to flow. In short, the tea was a rousing success and a wonderful time was had by all.

Despite Mr. Bear's lack of training, the stuffed animal acquitted himself admirably, everyone agreed as tea wound down. Elsie attributed this to Charles' leadership and guidance. Becky argued that Mr. Bear was a natural. In the end, it was agreed that it was a little bit of both.

After the guests said their various goodbyes to their gracious hostess, Elsie, Becky, Charles and Mr. Bear were left in the sitting room together. Elsie stood to help Charles clear the cups and saucers. As she did so, she could not resist giving her husband a squeeze of the hand and a peck on the cheek.

Becky jumped to her feet in consternation. "Lele! You don't kiss the butler!"

Elsie decided it was time to be straight with Becky. "You do when you've married the butler, Becky. Charlie is my husband, not just my butler."

"Husband?"

"This is what I've been trying to explain to you, poppet," Elsie said sweetly. She released Charles' hand and wrapped her arm around his waist. "Charlie and I fell in love and were married a few months ago."

"In love? Like in the stories?" Becky asked, her mind groping its way hesitantly towards understanding.

"Aye, just like the stories," Elsie said encouragingly. "Where the prince finds the girl and they marry and live happily ever after."

"Is Charlie a prince?" Becky eyed him suspiciously. Her fingers twitched double time as she processed this information.

"He is to me," Elsie nodded.

"A prince…a butler…a husband…" Becky mumbled to herself, clutching Mr. Bear very closely to her.

"And a brother," Elsie added gently. It was best to get it all on the table. She could see Becky struggling to connect everything together in her mind. It hurt her to confuse Becky, but Elsie knew if they didn't establish Charles as a brother now, it would be more confusing to Becky in the future.

"When Charlie married me, the law made him your brother."

"Brother?" Becky whispered as if she'd never heard the word. Then, realization hit her as the true meaning of everything Elsie had been telling her finally broke into a clearing in her brain. "You're my brother? Because the law says?"

"But it isn't official until you accept it," Charles added quickly. He didn't want to impose himself on Becky in any way. "If you're agreeable, I would be proud to be your brother."

"You don't have to decide right now," Elsie told her gently. "You take your time to think about it, but it would make me very happy if you would welcome Charlie into our family."

Becky gazed up at Charles with new eyes. 'Family' was a word she understood. Her Mam had taught her that family was the most important thing in the world. Becky's family had only grown smaller over the course of her life. First there were four, then three and now two. Charlie would make them three again. The thought filled Becky with a glowing warmth that she did not need to understand. Her tics stilled and Becky looked solemnly up at the nervous butler/brother.

"You can be my brother," Becky nodded and her face transformed. All her former distrust and confusion was gone. She gave Charlie a smile as vulnerable and welcoming as her previous looks had been closed and wary.

"Thank you, Becky," Charles whispered with glistening eyes. "I can't say how much this means to me."

With her arm still around her husband, Elsie reached a hand for her sister. Becky let herself be drawn into Elsie and Charles' embrace.

"I hope you're as good at being a brother as you are a butler," Becky mused innocently. Charles and Elsie laughed heartily at this.

"I shall try to be," Charles promised. "But I have as much experience at being a brother as Mr. Bear has at being a butler."

"You'll do just fine," Elsie assured him. "We'll all do just fine."

"Can I call you Charlie Bear?" Becky asked suddenly, looking up at Charles.

Elsie looked up at her husband's stunned expression. Unashamed of the tears running down his face, Charles shrugged. "Why not, poppet? Why not?"

The happy trio laughed and cried together as Charles wrapped his arms tightly around his family. There was no doubt in his mind that they would be a real family.

_Someday, Elsie and I will retire. Someday, Becky will want to come live with us. Someday will find us living under one roof, taking care of each other as family does._

It was several years later and the road was not easy, but eventually Someday did come.

END OF EPILOGUE

* * *

**AN/ Because I cannot resist a happy ending:) Thank you for following Chelsie and me on this journey. I'm marking this story as 'Complete' and moving to the next challenge. Please take the time to leave a last comment if you feel so inclined. **

**Until next time...**

**Chelsie On!**


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